A Child of Limerence
by nom-omnis-moriar
Summary: On the 3rd of March, 2011 at 6:12 am, at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock cursed as he held his child for the first time. It's a shame he did not hold as much emotion for the child's mother, and that his affections lay with John instead. S&M one sided, S&J.
1. Prologue

**lim·er·ence **/ ˈlimərəns/ • n. Psychol. the state of being infatuated with another person, typically involuntary, and characterized by a strong desire for reciprocation of one's feelings.

**Prologue**

John Watson had heard Sherlock Holmes swear twice and blaspheme once.

According to Mycroft, this was of great significance as he'd known him for all of his 35 years and had only heard the detective curse once. John had tried to hold back a beaming grin as he heard this. He failed.

Over the eighteen months he had known him, John had concluded that to see any undiluted emotion from the consulting detective was quite the phenomenon. A smile -or at least a 'Sherlock smile' comprised of a slight one sided (always the left) smirk – had a quota of perhaps 3-4 times a week. Laughter was _much_ rarer, perhaps once a week. John had yet to determine if this was due to outstanding self control or due to Sherlock simply being a miserable sod. Moebius syndrome wasn't a possibility, as Sherlock was _perfectly_ able to do the following:

Scoff, sneer, smirk, scowl, snarl, snigger and most of all, sulk.

Selective expression, that's what Mrs Hudson had called it.

Now these three occurrences - which gave John eternal bragging rights to all three of Sherlock's other close contacts – were not simply from the man stubbing his toe, or even for letting a criminal get away in the back alleys of London. Oh no, only in the most momentous, truly _divine_ moments of Sherlock's life would he would he turn to such archetypal methods of expression.

Mycroft seemed to be under the impression that the tales behind these marvels were a currency of sorts that ought to be traded with others for 'highly valued information' (or in other words, gossip from the upmost realms of society) – although John suspected that Mycroft simply revelled in revealing his brothers 'Achilles heel'.

Nevertheless, two of the three occurrences would be for John's ears and for John's ears only. Ask him to describe these events in detail and he will simply blush and hide behind anything nearest to him. Most likely a newspaper or his laptop screen. If it's a good day Sherlock will immediately step in front of John, thereby doing the job for him. It was perhaps the _only_ job he did for him.

The most recent occasion was perhaps the most glorious in John's mind, although he played no part in its fabrication. It was too pure a memory to be used for ammunition against Sherlock, for it was something John had never yet seen, nor expected to see for the entire duration of their friendship.

It was a moment devoid of sharp wit, brilliant mind and sociopathic indication. The only time when John completely forgot that kneeling in front of him was the great Sherlock Holmes, tabloid celebrity and child prodigy and simply saw Sherlock Holmes - actual human being.

On the 3rd of March, 2011 at 6:12 am, in the living room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock cursed as he held his child for the first time.

* * *

><p><span>16th June – 2010<span>

"The Geek interpreter, what's that?"

"That's the title."

"What does it need a title for?"

John couldn't help enthralling in Sherlock's mild confusion and bit his cheek to hide back a smirk that he was sure Sherlock would not appreciate. He also noticed the scent emanating from the detective's jaw but _didn't _appreciate the prickling heat that was beginning to crawl up the back of his neck as a result.

_Jermyn Street Aftershave Lotion, courtesy of 'Taylor of Old Bond Street'. Uses it every time he shaves, which is usually Tuesday and Friday morning. Always in the living room, so he can glance between the mirror and Jeremy Kyle on the telly. Alcohol free, for sensitive skin. Yeah Sherlock, I know about the eczema._

"John?" Sherlock drawled, focusing his attention on buttoning the cuffs of his newly dry cleaned shirt. And yes, John _did_ take and fetch it for him – the man _pouted_, what was he supposed to do?

The laptop was clicked shut and John made his way to the refrigerator to make his third cup of tea for the day.

"No milk."

The doctor made a U Turn and returned to his chair with a roll of the eyes, carrying the pile of the day's newspapers that Sherlock insisted were analysed every day for anything 'not boring', but without his tea.

"I'm going to the lab." Sherlock stated, walking to the mirror in the living room and now smoothing down the lapels of his blazer. Or in other words, _'I'm going to disappear off the face of the planet. Don't even think about lazing around watching that Lost Box set you bought yesterday, don't be so boring John.'_

"Brilliant, I can watch that Box-"

"No."

A stand off began between the two men in 221B Baker street, with Sherlock flurrying around their desk, papers cascading onto the floor.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

The detective picked up a piece of paper of paper with an _'aha!'_ of victory before turning to his flatmate, "Because it does nothing to contribute to society John.'

"I thought you were all about being a social deviant, _Sherlock_."

"I am. Social deviance is not measured in terms of morality but in terms of what a society would call irrational or what I like to call 'non conforming behaviour'."

John chuckled silently to himself, the heading on the open page of The Sun catching his eye – 'Police puzzled by disappearance of blonde bombshell, Jennie Bentham'. "Behaviour such as considering thrashing somebody's dead relative with a riding crop a healthy past time?"

"Precisely." Sherlock stated wryly, "This," He began, waving a Chinese takeaway menu millimetres from John's face, like an overexcited child showing their parent a drawing, "Is for you."

"Let me guess: I am meant to have some psychic powers to determine when you are going to come home and have number 78 and 24 – without the bean sprouts-" He added, with a nod of approval from Sherlock, "On the table for you? Ha. That's new."

"No, the list on the back is for you. Don't want you getting bored." The detective retorted, before heading out the door.

John wasted no time in fetching the DVD from his bedroom and inserting into the telly, before settling himself onto the sofa. But that takeaway menu was in the corner of his sight, lying on the coffee table and it was bugging at him to death. With a sigh of frustration, he picked up the flyer, narrowly avoiding the conical of blue dye named 'Benedict's reagent' on the corner of the table. Mrs Hudson wouldn't appreciate that staining the floorboards.

_1. Get Milk. Honestly John, you know 93.5% of my diet consists of tea, you'd think you'd be considerate enough to provide this essential component._

_2. At exactly 15:00 pm, remove all sources of light from the kitchen and living room. Open the cupboard under the sink and add the contents of the teacup into the fish tank. Don't ask questions when I come back._

_3. You may want to clean the bath. Very nasty experiment involving a pig's stomach. If it's any consolation, it was boring. _

_4. Take back that maroon jumper you purchased last Thursday from Paul Smith. Just because it's from a 'posh' shop doesn't make it attractive on you. Petrol blue is much more your colour. Besides, Paul Smith is from Nottingham, the city with the highest rate of gun crime in the UK. Bit of an oxymoron don't you think?_

_P.T.O_

John rolled his eyes and turned over the leaflet.

_By the way, that Box Set you bought? They're in Limbo. Now you don't have to be boring. _

"The bloody prick." The man sighed, tossing the leaflet as far away from his as possible in a huff. _John – 3, Sherlock – sodding thousands._

The next 10 minutes were invested in trying to enjoy the programme. It was a wasted investment. John got up and put on his coat to head out to the shops when his phone vibrated in his pocket:

_Number 78 and 22. Taking a risk. Home at 11 – SH._

John smiled. Home at 11._ Home. _How domestic for the Consulting Detective.

* * *

><p>Sherlock knew that he was <em>not <em>in a good mood. He had rarely been in what people described as a 'good' mood. Cognitively aroused perhaps, but never 'happy'. His life was led with as little emotion as possible and it suited him just fine.

That's why when after several days of having some peculiar physiological symptoms that neither the DSM nor the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Diagnosis could explain, Sherlock found himself trying out several methods of torture on a certain _Zuzanna __Michalska, aged 31, C.O.D: Maternal death by hemorrhaging._

Sherlock wasted no time in peeling back the white sheet covering the body before picking up the hot iron rod, spending a moment to appreciate the almost white hot tip produced by Sherlock walking in on a particularly mournful Cremation, donned in baby pink over gloves, with the iron rod in hand.

He didn't understand the cries of complaint from the family of the deceased, he did wait patiently until they had all left before throwing open the door and thrusting the iron rod into the still glowing ashes of coal, coffin and...well.

Nonetheless, Sherlock pressed the rod firmly under the curve of the corpse's left breast and watched with utter fascination as the skin began to hiss and redden immediately.

_Forgot face mask. Burning flesh. Not pleasant._

"S-something's bothering you."

Sherlock sighed inwardly, "How long have you been there?" He sighed tossing the brand into the sink behind him, cold water spilling over the side and belching out steam from the rod.

His eyes flashed in the pathologist's direction for a mere second before returning to examine the wound.

_1-2 minutes. Slightly off putting. _

"Not very long, I mean, I just got here, I wasn't watch-"

Sherlock raises his hand to her and she stops immediately, blushing furiously. At this point in their routine she will either offer him coffee or scamper out of the room in humiliation. He therefore decides to press her for more information when she does neither.

"'_Something's bothering you_.' Do elaborate Molly." He mumbles from somewhere around the corpses navel, followed by the sound of a tazer. The body spasms and Sherlock adds one to his weekly smile quota.

_Body's fresh, less than 12 hours in order for muscles to still respond to electrical stimuli. Significantly less that 12 hours if the blood from the brand coagulates. _

"You aren't writing down any results," She begins with a timid smile, "And you haven't controlled all the extraneous variables, see? The windows are open."

Sherlock pauses at this, standing straight and rolling his shoulders slightly after being bent over the body for too long. His eyes are squinting in analysis.

He says nothing however, so Molly decides to continue. "A-and this morning you said you were investigating the effects of external stimuli on a dead body, which you _are_, it's just that if you were looking into coagulation, you should have chosen to brand on an extremity – the toes for example – or a major blood vessel, and you well...haven't."

The pair of them shares a glance, before Molly backs down, wringing her hands.

"Quite right Molly, on both accounts. Stagnation of blood in the lower extremities due to Livor Mortis and yes, something _has_ been bothering me."

"What do you need?"

"I have been suffering from some physiological symptoms for some time and as I have been unable to find the reason behind these symptoms, I have deduced that they are in fact caused by an _emotion_." He states, the last word spoken through clenched teeth.

"Sit down."

"Excuse me?"

"S-sit down Sherlock?" She repeats, patting the lab stool next to her. He complies, but not before covering up the body. "So..."

"I have been suffering from headaches, restlessness, heart palpitations and...sweating." He says, mouth downturned in disgust.

"And are these periodic?" She asks gingerly, getting up to make coffee. She returns with two cups, although she knows that he won't touch his.

"Yes." He nods, hands clasped together and both index fingers tapping on his chin furiously in thought.

"And do you have any neurological symptoms? Blurred vis-"

"I _know_ what neurological symptoms are. And no, nothing of the sort."

"So...any nausea, stomach pain or light sensitivity?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Tension headaches then." She says with a slight smile, leaning forward slightly to catch Sherlock's attention, but recoiling when his piercing grey eyes glared at her.

He eyes widen suddenly and turns to the pathologist, "The episodes are triggered by a particular thought process.'

"A memory?"

"No. I feel as though I am in ...anticipation."

Molly clears her throat, her voice coming out with a slight squeak, "Anticipation of what?"

The man forces himself from the stool and does what he does best when in cerebral hysteria: pacing. Time passes – 7 minutes and 24 seconds in total - coffee becomes lukewarm at best and Molly shifts uncomfortably on her stool.

He finally stops and spins on his heels to face the pathologist directly. "_You._" He states, a hint of accusation in the way his eyes narrow and his head tilts back a little, just _daring_ her to retaliate.

Molly swallows loudly, "M-me? What have if done?"

"Artificial insemination."

Molly is a textbook 'doe in the headlights' and she ticks every box as the sympathetic nervous system overrides any possible rational thought or action. She is the helpless creature and this man is as threatening as a FV4034 Challenger 2 with Chobham armour and 120mm rifled gun.

Molly would still perceive him as a Jaguar though, preferably that one on the advert with that man with the velvet voice that made her need to cross her legs a little _too_ tightly – _XKR-S wasn't it?_

"...Dunno know what you're talking about..."

"Don't give me that Molly Hooper, remember to whom you are you talking to."

_Obvious flush around the cheeks, neck and cleavage. Although slight tint before accusation, colour is now borderline scarlet. Most likely due to embarrassment although caffeine consumption is also a contribution. _

_Dilation of pupils at attempt to view all potentials threats, or..._

_Increased heart rate, breathing rate and muscle tension – white knuckles gripping the desk... wait._

"Are you having an orgasm?" He asks with a cocked eyebrow.

"WHAT?"

"Hmm, ability to respond coherently suggests not." Sherlock mumbles to himself, storing this piece of information in his mind palace, preferably taking place of the solar system. "Anyway," He continues, clearing his throat and shoving his hands deep into his trouser pockets, "As I was saying, as sneaky as you believe yourself to be Molly, nothing can be kept from me. You are looking into artificial insemination."

Sherlock attempts to beckon a response from the woman, preferably an auditory one. No such luck.

"No?" He asks, sighing deeply, though secretly reveling in his chance to show his talents, "Alright then. Although I had my suspicions, my thoughts were not confirmed until last Friday when that woman brought in her newborn – what was her name? Susan...Susie..."

"Rosie."

Sherlock dismissed this was a wave of his hand, "No matter. What intrigued me was your fascination with the child. How you fussed over him, watched him and how your eyes were all glazed over when the pair of them _finally_ left. Now of course, most people would assume that you were particularly hormonal or just very fond of children. However, I know you ovulate around the 29th of each month, so _that_ wasn't it. Furthermore, you have always been rather avoidant of children – so what changed?"

Molly rested her head in her hands, "You tell me Sherlock."

"You've been to see Colin Davis." He states, causing Molly to gasp in surprise as he leaned across the desk, his body towering over hers as he stared into her eyes in defiance. "Consultant Gynecologist, Floor 3, Room Number 3. 57. Appointment every Monday, for 3 weeks. It's the only time I see you wearing a skirt. I've also seen pamphlets in your handbag," He paused, taking on a more patronizing tone, "_Are you ready to bring a child into the world? Being a single parent: How to cope."_

The pathologist took a deep breathe and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, "She died in labor." She stated beckoning to the body that lay lifeless on the trolley, Sherlock frowned slightly, turning to give the corpse a once –over.

"Yes I know."

"She didn't even get to see her child," She began, her voice wavering a little. Sherlock felt a bizarre twinge down his back. "She was in labor for 28 hours and died on the bed. They had to..." She stopped, cupping her face with her hands to hide her tears from the consulting detective, "Cut her open to finally get the baby out."

"And this bothers you because...?" He mumbles to himself, before his mouth formed an 'o' of revelation as he reached his conclusion. "She's younger than you. Two years. If this happened to her at her age, there is an increased chance it will happen to you..."

"The longer I leave it..."

"The higher the risk, not to mention the harder it is to fall pregnant."

A mutual silence followed, with Sherlock mulling over the events of the last hour and Molly simply too stunned and mortified to speak.

Of course, most people would enquire as to why Molly Hooper was looking into Artificial Insemination in the first place. But Sherlock Holmes was not like 'most people' if in fact he was like any at all. He was aware that Molly was an extremely affectionate creature, possibly due to a lack of close family and only enough friends to count on one hand, most of which were friends of convenience – made by sharing labs several hours of the week. After Moriarty, relationships seemed to take a back seat, and even before the psychopath, Sherlock expected that Molly had slept with perhaps 3 other people at best, determined by her lack of sexual prowess. Thereby a child – a child created by AI – was the only logical option in his mind.

"Sperm donation, I am presuming?"

"Yeah."

"And you are aware of the risks?"

"Every donor is screened for genetic diseases, chromosome anomalies and sexually transmitted diseases."

"Yes, yes of course. But I mean for _you_ Molly."

"Sherlock are you..." Molly began, reaching to touch his shoulder, "Worried about me?"

The detective flinched from her touch, "Worried? Of course not." He scoffed, ignoring Molly's obvious disappointment, "This is a life changing decision. Best not to be rash, that's all. You are aware that sperm donations are no longer anonymous?"

"Yes."

"And so your child would have the ability to search for their father if he/she desired it."

"Yes."

"And this thereby removes perhaps the only benefit of sperm donation, rendering it useless."

"Not true. I don't mind if the child would want to find its father. Besides, I am able to select the donor based on looks, personality, academic ability..."

"That is extremely dense of you Molly; please don't tell me you believe in all this 'gene for intelligence' nonsense? As for personality, have you not heard of the nature/nurture debate?"

"There has been some evidence to show that there are genetic predispositions for intelligence and aggression..."

Sherlock slammed a fist onto the table at this, vials and test tubes clattering as he did so, "Molly! This is not just some checklist, this is a _child_. I did not expect you be so cold – hearted."

"_Me _cold-hearted?" She wailed, now standing to meet Sherlock head on, "Surely this is a better option than choosing a man at random and producing a child from a one night stand! I thought of all people _you_," She gasped, poking Sherlock in the chest, "Would appreciate what I was trying to do!" She was rather appreciative of the deck between them, otherwise she may well have grabbed him by his lapels and shook him to make him see sense.

"I am evolutionist Molly; believe it or not, I strongly disagree with _selective breeding_." He snarled with great disgust.

"I don't even see what this has to do with you, why would you even care?" She says, pulling off her lab coat and rushing over to the coat hooks at the other side of the room. "Oh wait, how would you to able to work in the lab if I left to take care of a child?" She walked back to him now, standing so close to him she see the slight nick on his cheek from where he had shaved this morning.

_Guess he is human after all_.

She smirked slightly as she thought this, and Sherlock noticed it almost unconsciously.

"Why did you feel the need to reveal my secret? I know you like to show off, but there is nobody else here."

His eyes dart around her face and he inhales sharply.

_Bingo._

"Because I believe I now know what I have been in anticipation of, Molly." He speaks slowly and Molly notices that there is no smirk, no hands crossed behind his back and, as she already remarked upon – no audience. He stands as a normal man, albeit as close to one as he could possibly get. This is no display of his grand intelligence.

"O-oh?"

"Oh yes Molly Hopper." He whispers with an air of mystery, "Because I believe I am about to make you a proposition."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

25th June, 2010

Sherlock Holmes is a man of many things. A man of science, first and foremost (though physics he has complete disregard for, Sherlock is certainly _not_ a man of consistency), a man of unparalleled wit, a man of unfathomable taste in quite literally everything and most importantly a man of feeling.

John has long since moved from the _Sherlock-is-a-psychopathic-emotionless-recluse_ party which is currently in power due its many number of followers to the _Sherlock-is-Sherlock-and-that-will-ALWAYS-be-a-valid-explanation _party of which the number of followers are...few to say the least.

Being a man of the medical profession, John is under no doubt that Sherlock has a mental illness. Perhaps more than one.

Alright, a fucking menagerie.

These are John's observations of _Case Study #290110, Holmes, Sherlock:_

**1.** Periods of silence and sulking on the sofa – _Depression._

**2.** Combined with periods of hysteria, rushed speech and going days without sleep – _Bipolar Disorder (most likely II – no chance of hyper sexuality)_.

**3.** A serious knack for deception and an impulsiveness that leads John to wonder how long Sherlock has been dealing with the devil for 'extra time' – _Antisocial Personality Disorder. That's sociopathy to you, Anderson. _

**4.** Serious lack of social skills, lack of emotional reciprocity but an abundance of obsessions. Clay Tobacco Pipes found along the River Thames, scalpels and although John was sworn to secrecy: makeup. Though this was relatively short lived and was _of course _for experimentation only – _Aspergers Syndrome._

**5.** A dangerously absent relationship with food, and cheeks so hollow that although John thinks makes the man look almost celestial, the Doctor in him thinks – _Anorexia Nervosa._

Of course it would be impossible for anyone to ever make a single diagnosis – not that Sherlock would ever allow it anyway – and so everyone had taking to silently calling it _Sherlock Syndrome._

John had also realised that in the detective's world, showing no emotion was an emotion in itself and had since realised that his _selective expression _was exactly that. First of all, Sherlock does not _do_ easy-to-read expressions. Along with every aspect of himself, he likes to make things complicated.

Sherlock does not do happy, he does placid.

Sherlock does not do sad, he does poignant.

And finally, Sherlock does not do lust, he does...well those who had experienced this little Wonder of the World were still waiting for the Oxford English Dictionary, or even Urban Dictionary to come up for a word for that.

John doesn't include anger, because for some reason Sherlock gets angry. All the time. Just like any normal person. But everyone seems to ignore this anomaly because they want to be consistent in their_ '_professional' analysis of the great Sherlock Holmes.

In exactly 327 days from today, on the worn out rug beside their sofa, John will see for himself just how big Sherlock's heart is, along with everything else. But until then he makes do with the otherworldly contortions of the Detective's face when anger or rather boredom hits him and the occasional glimpse of the man's taut, pearl stomach when his buttons randomly give way. The latter is very infrequent, and John thinks it should be considered as a National Holiday.

So, when John returns back from the shops on this particular day and finds that Sherlock is _definitely_ within the flat, but not a) moping on the sofa, b) prodding that flattened rat that he had returned with last night – carrying it by the tail and looking slight manic and c) sloshing around in the bath, because he would have heard the racket out in the hall he can conclude that _yes_, _something has changed._

There might as well be a red cross on Sherlock's door to warn John of entering. The Doctor only needs to take one look at it to know that Sherlock is in an ... unusual mood. The tie from his blue silk dressing gown is caught haphazardly in the door.

Usually Sherlock is very precious about this item of clothing. Obsessively so. The last time John spilt his tea all over the sofa the man had gone as far as leaping onto the coffee table, bunching up the dressing gown around his waist and refusing to come down until the sofa had been cleaned thoroughly. Sherlock storming into his room after a particularly pointless argument and slamming the door behind him, only to have to reopen it to release the tie from the door was also another memory of John's.

Nonetheless, he knocks on the door lightly, doesn't bother waiting for a reply from Sherlock because he won't get one, and opens the door just enough for him to slip into the room. He nearly trips over the dressing gown at his feet as he moves to sit on the corner of the detective's bed. _Sherlock's bed._

The detective however chooses to ignore him, continuing to mumble under his breath.

"_Trēdecim, quattuordecim, quīndeci... sēdecim-"_

"This is new."

Silence.

John continues, "So come on then, what's so major that even the sofa isn't a good enough place to sulk?"

Muscles tense in Sherlock's face and John realises this is about as much emotion as he's going to get from him at this stage. Sherlock pauses and finally opens his eyes to acknowledge the man sitting opposite him. "I have a ...date."

"A date?"

"Yes John. A date." He says impatiently.

"But I thought you were married to-"

Sherlock exhales sharply, crossing his arms. "It's for a _case_."

"Well what's the problem then? You're a bloody good actor Sherlock, i'm sure you can at least _pretend_ to show interest in someone, especially if it's for-"

"I show interest in _you _John."

John knows that Sherlock means this in a completely platonic form, but it's such a rare moment of humanity that he feels the pull on his _chordae tendinae. _He turns his attention to the quilt on Sherlock's bed, his fingers running over the ripples in the silk caused by Sherlock's fidgeting legs, anything to avoid the man's burning gaze.

John hears the bed creak and then feels the warmth of a body kneeled against him as Sherlock mumbles, "Need help John."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock presses the back of his hand to his mouth and clears his throat. John adores these almost subconscious moments of decorum: the rigid poise with which he holds himself at the table when eating (or when watching John eating), the time the man takes every _single_ day to polish his shoes, of and the almost meticulous way that he laid out of the cutlery for Mrs Hudson's birthday dinner, making sure the napkins were folded just _so_ that give him a glimpse into Sherlock's luxurious upbringing that the man refuses to own up to.

"I need some help."

John frowns at this, his bottom lip jutting out, "What could I_ possibly_ help you with?"

"I'm going to need to show affection. As you know this is not my area." Sherlock sighs with contempt, before his voice takes on a much softer, innocent tone "I was rather hoping you might help me."

Although Sherlock had haphazardly thrown the curtains together, the slight gap between them allows a narrow slit of sunlight that suddenly intensifies as the clouds pass over, giving the pair of men the first real chance to scrutinise each other.

The Doctor sees light that sculpts the mans cheekbones, shadow falling into the hollows of his cheeks and contrasting with skin so white he can see the blue ribbon of the detective's external jugular vein run perpendicularly down the pillar of his neck before disappearing near his clavicle, and he wants to trace it to his fingers to covert to it haptic memory and not just visual memory because its more reliable and he's terrified he may forget.

He tries to count his eyelashes, because he doesn't understand why they don't clump together with sleep like his do, and how they manage to frame his somewhat small eyes to become something rather extraordinary. They are recessive; Sherlock's eyes, along with many of his features – straight hair line, attached earlobes, lack of freckles, his adorable inability to roll his tongue and one that John only found out recently, left handedness. But more on that another time.

What John meant was that Sherlock was obviously a glitch in natural selection, a survival of the non fittest, _'the runt of the litter'_ as Sherlock himself had even claimed.

Yet Sherlock had a genome that would have left Da Vinci, Freud, Watson and Crick and Darwin speechless, 46 chromosomes of skewed perfection that created something John had only read about it in the Bible or in post apocalyptic novels.

"Staring, John."

Sherlock half smiles and John notices no dimple in his cheek. Another recessive quality. "So are you."

"You never stare."

"You _always_ stare."

They both chuckle silently, but continue to analyse as the light fades and they are both covered in a dull amber glow, as thought the pair of them were encased in a cocoon of percale sheets, velvet throws, silk cushions and cotton drapes together awaiting their metamorphosis.

And it all begins with a touch. A surprisingly warm, graceful hand cupping a man's jaw, a hitchhiker's thumb (recessive) pressed on dry lips and said lips pursing to return the touch.

Sherlock hears the slight sound that comes from this movement, the wetness, the suction and sighs sharply, "You kissed me."

John turns his head so that his lips are now pressed against Sherlock's hand, though his eyes are still on the man kneeling beside him, replying with a muffled "Did I?"

Sherlock hears that wonderful 'muah' sound again, and though he can't see, he can feel lips and teeth and tongue and...

John's reminded of when he returned from Lauriston Gardens to find Sherlock groaning as the patches released the Nicotine into his system, his hand was clenching then, and his hand is clenching now, at the back of John's neck to beckon him closer.

He rests his forehead against Sherlock's, coping his movements, only reaching his fingers deep into the curls he finds there.

Serotonin floods into synaptic clefts, binding to receptors, making Sherlock feel so weightless he may as well have wings sprouting from his shoulder blades and John develops what can only be a proboscis in this pupa of sensuality and _sense_ because Sherlock can feel something trailing down his neck and not only is it too long and wonderful to be simply a muscle for swallowing, but because of a 9 year old _petit_ Sherlock, who spent a good seven months being obsessed with both Lepidoptera (which has long since passed – and that's butterflies and moths to the common folk) and Latin (still a glorious love affair).

And so because of this, because of that first Red Admiral that had landed on the little detective's nose, spreading its wings to enjoy the spring rays and causing him to go nearly cross-eyed in fascination, his family cooing at the scene so much Mycroft had a strop because nobody cared about him at _his_ birthday garden party, Sherlock _knew_.

_Proboscis, which comes from 'pro' – forth, forward, before and 'bosko' – to feed/nourish._

And in a typical twisted Sherlock way, he understood, because there was something _before_ him and it _nourished_ him. He was pretty sure that he was feeding John too, because he was sounding extremely...satisfied. So he decided to reciprocate.

Taking the skin of the Doctor's pulse point between his lips, he sucks a little, looking at John from the corner of his eye. He needn't have bothered as he could simply have followed the heartbeat as a metronome and deduced that it was pleasurable to the man before him, but he wanted to see everything change.

"Best not to do this on a first date..." John mumbles, and Sherlock would expect this as a caution, but he feels a hand in the back of his head again and he wastes no time in lapping at the skin again.

A wonderful heat surrounds them both, and Sherlock doesn't know if it's just the increased respiration, the lack of ventilation in their cocoon or more likely the hormones, but he pulls closer, even though they are both perspiring a ridiculous amount and Sherlock's a bit OCD about his personal hygiene and...

John's head is tilted back now, Sherlock placing his tongue flat on his _laryngeal prominence _and moving up, slowly, slowly, until he ends at the edge of his chin with a flick, leaning back slightly to admire his work as though he had just marked his initials, "We are nothing but unconventional, John."

Some form of super scaled mitosis occurs in the next few moments, with spindle fibres – or in this case pale, gangling limbs and tanned, muscled ones entwining, fusing and _pressing_. If one body breathes, the other must arch to accommodate, if one beckons, the other follows, but if one moans then they have to stop.

Because neither wants to cross that bridge yet. Or rather neither of them wants to cross that minefield yet. That's a whole other land of variables and what-ifs and _emotions_ that neither of them can yet bare thinking about.

Besides Sherlock is currently experiencing a lot of _firsts_ right now – first nagging thought at the back of his head to either kiss John or run from the room, first fucking fantastic shiver as John grabs Sherlock's hands and puts them on his hips so he can feel them flexing as he rocks into him and thereby leads to the first feel of what he concludes are 8.3 inches of warm, solid John.

And so Sherlock Holmes bursts forth from his chrysalis, an embodiment of testosterone and dopamine and fabled, infant wings that cause him to fall back into the silken sheets bringing his John with him. He is an imago now and wastes no time in testing his 'wings'.

"_John_" Sherlock pants, because whatever _it_ is, the man that rocks himself between his thighs isn't doing it.

John stops himself and lifts himself up on his arms, "There is something I want to do-"

"_Yes John._"

John chuckles at Sherlock's impatience, before leaning down slowly so he is nestled against him once again, "But," He begins, his lips brushing against Sherlock's.

"Kiss me John." He manages to mumble in the small space between their mouths, just as John takes his bottom lip and pulls and sucks...

"You sure?"

Sherlock nods. Rubs their noses together for further confirmation.

And so with innocent smiles between them, John kisses Sherlock, and although John has cramp in his arms to hold off some of his weight, and Sherlock is pretty sure he can taste the nasty sugar residue of Coca-Cola, John knows that from now on the air at the top of his lungs will be saved for Sherlock. For just his name alone.

And Sherlock knows that John can no longer have a meagre chamber in his mind palace, that he'll have to build an entirely new memory map, _Fort Watson_, and it'll have a moat of milky-luke-warm-tea-with-two-sugars and he'll make sure it revolves around the sun _and_ has a moon because sharing lips and sighs and oxygen with John Hamish Watson is _dazzling_.

As a consequence the old chamber that now lies in the palace is collecting dust, with damp now growing in the corners, the floorboards beginning to rot and the Prime Minister knocking on the door beginning to come in and fill it along with trashy block-buster movies and 'what's hot' this season, is refurbished. Sometimes it has calming pastel walls and luxurious Berber carpet and sometimes there is a blackness trickling down the wallpaper and the light flashes erratically.

The room keeps being renamed, the door continually repainted to cover previous attempts. Sometimes it's Molly (mint green). Sometimes baby (the purest white). Occasionally it's Fatherhood (the purest _black_), responsibility (a looming violet) or the unknown (gold).

The sound of John's voice stops Sherlock mid-promenade through his palace, "-wasn't for a case was it?"

"You got me." Sherlock sighs, raising his hands slightly in mock defeat.

"Yeah I have." John says, "I really have _got you_ haven't I?" He repeats to himself breathlessly.

The pair roll onto their sides and Sherlock wastes no time in capturing John again, his hand cupping the doctors face, because he has barely touched for years and needs to make up for it. Big time.

Approximately nineteen minutes later Sherlock complains that he can't feel his lips anymore and so they reside to innocent petting, still entwined on the bed.

John runs a finger down Sherlock's cheek and nuzzles closer to his body, "Y'ever going to tell me what this was really for?"

Sherlock frowns, "What makes you think I didn't want this?"

John doesn't reply to that because he can't find one speck of evidence in the pants from Sherlock's lips or the somewhat involuntary clenching of his thighs from earlier that he didn't respond in kind.

"Alight," John begins, sitting up now so that he can breathe deep, clear air and not Chanel No. Sherlock and tries the question from a different angle, "Why were you brooding in here?"

The Consulting Detective snuggles deeper down into the blankets, burying his face somewhat into the pillow, "Can't tell you."

"Will you ever?" John persists, pushing a stray curl that falls in front of Sherlock's doe eyes.

"Sooner or later I'll have to."

John raises his eyebrows, "Is it bad?"

Sherlock turns violently onto his back, "No. Just new." He takes one look at John, a look of _don't persist, please, _please_, for now, let it go. Let. It Go. _"Just very, very new..."

* * *

><p>"What do you mean a proposition?" Molly says, her fingers paused in buttoning her coat.<p>

Sherlock doesn't reply at first, because he is revelling too much in the pretend obliviousness of one Molly Hooper, because she damn well knows what he's asking, she isn't that simple a woman.

"Must I spell it out?" Sherlock sighs. Write it in those quavers she insists on getting from the vending machine ever_y_ lunchtime? Sing it with a musical accompaniment from his violin? Tazer it into the cadaver on the trolley? _Ooh that's not a bad idea..._

"I don't know-"

"I wish to father your child, Molly."

Oh. _Oh._

_Why am I leaning against the workbench? Why is my face wet?_

She hears her name being called and flutters her eyes open "Molly? You fainted." Sherlock states matter-of-factly, kneeling beside her, a beaker of water in his hand.

"Did I just dream that?" She mumbles, wiping a few drops of water from her face.

"Depends," Sherlock begins, moving to sit against the workbench too, "What you mean by _that_. If you mean that I just offered to impregna-"

"Oh _God._" Molly flushed, running a hand over her face; the man _had _to be joking.

"-Then _no_, you didn't 'dream' it."

"Fine. When?"

"Well I know you ovulate between the 25th and the 3rd so, wait _what_?"

Molly's been spoon fed the fairy tale romance her whole life, she has stacks of Heat and Ok! all over her flat and enough soppy, trashy romance DVD's to make even a teenage girl nauseous. She shouldn't be so easily persuaded. She should want the marriage proposal, the semi detached house with a husband , two kids and a Renault Megane on the drive. Instead she's choosing well...this.

And now that Sherlock feels John lean down and kiss him comfortingly is way that means _alright, let's stop talking and just lay here and respire_ he knows that not every single detail has to be mapped out right there and then.

He has kissed John. He would, at some point, like very much to do so again. He had arranged to have a child with Molly and would, at some point (in the not too distant future, in fact, four days from now, in this very bed) find himself half naked and pressing into her and feeling _sick_ because it was all too mundane and too 'normal' and _not. His. John. _

But for now, he lies against the doctor, pulling out his phone when it buzzes in his pocket.

_Cold Feet? Molly x_

John dozes against his shoulder, a hand clutched in his shirt and Sherlock knows he is standing at the edge of a precipice and he _has_ to jump because it's too good not to. He just hopes John is on the ground waiting for him, watching him in case it goes wrong.

_Never. Let's do this. – SH _

* * *

><p><em>Question: Should i make this Sherlock and John or Sherlock and Molly in the characters section? Hmm. <em>

_Thanks so much to reviews/favourites/alerts :) _


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**June 28th 2010**

"Dear God, tell me you're joking."

"God lacks the capability to joke: he _doesn't exist_"

"You are actually going through with this?"

"No" The taller man says, leaning further back into his chair, "I thought I would just make this all up, because I like being called a-", and uses quote fingers, "_bloody pillock_."

A mug of tea is knocked off the kitchen table and smashes on the floor. Sherlock will claim it was John's, so that he can continue to drink the other cup and just add two sugars on the quiet. John's far too angry to notice.

Either way, the detective smirks at John's seething anger, because quite frankly, it's bloody hilarious. He knows that John wants to play housewife and get right down to mopping the floor, he can see his eyes constantly glancing to the chaos of ceramic shards scattered around their feet.

"You are such a smart-arse Sherlock."

The Detective chuckles darkly, a low rumbling in his chest, "Well, I am smart, that goes without saying," He quips, getting up from his chair swiftly to throw John a tea towel.

John does _not_ appreciate the raised eyebrows and the '_we-both-know-you-want-to-so-just-clean-the-floor-already'_ look he gets before the tea towel hits him full in the face.

"And as for my arse," John hears, throwing the cloth onto the floor with a little more vigour then was really needed, "Well, you know about that better than anyone, don't you John?"

Sherlock actually has the nerve to wink as he calls to the doctor over his shoulder, sauntering to the lounge and throwing himself onto the sofa.

John could make a snide remark, or perhaps threaten with not touching the man who was currently 'unconsciously' fiddling with the tie strings of his casual trousers, curling them through his lovely, long, dextrous fingers but the thought of not having a repeat of two days ago was, quite frankly, a cardinal sin.

* * *

><p>It involved stumbling into Sherlock's room at the early hours of the morning as Lestrade had sent a message, the man grumbling at the sudden intrusion and mumbling something that sounded rather like 'hydrochloric acid to the bollocks'.<p>

"John," The man croaked, "It must be between 6:00 and 7:00 going by the light, just _what_ are you doing?"

John tossed the mobile onto the bed and the text alert went off again as he crossed the room to throw open the curtains.

Sherlock groaned in protest and John heard the creak of the mattress, although he knew it wasn't from the detective getting out of bed and dragging his perfectly formed arse to the shower.

Oh no, it was much, _much_ better.

Said perfectly formed arse was rather spectacularly on show in a pair of low ridding pyjamas, as Sherlock lay on his stomach, quite literally rocking his hips further into the mattress and a frustrated groan coming from where his head lay buried deep in the mass of pillows.

John, in a rather pathetic attempt to maintain composure, acted the part of an irritable parent, flexing his hands and standing at the foot of the bed, and mentioned something about 'acting like such a mardy child'.

"Ugh...don't mention children..." Sherlock mumbled, before sensing his slip of the tongue. Damn his lethargy, his previous devotion to his forced insomnia returned with great vigour. "Wait, _mardy?_" He repeated with disdain.

"Yeah, mardy. Slang for moody, stroppy, sulking like a small child..."

Sherlock 'harrumphs', kicking the sheets from his legs and John is rewarded with just the slightest view of the detective's, ahem, _gluteal cleft_.

Sherlock has a little kink for anatomical terms, though the stubborn git won't admit it. John thinks it stems from Sherlock's insatiable longing for knowledge – constantly striving for the unknown and rarely being indulged. And with anatomy, with Sherlock's knowledge being...accurate but unsystematic, John could be Sherlock's tutor. Besides, he has a hypothesis that his detective would continue his improving... _technical tongue_ both inside and outside the bedroom.

And yes, that does have a double meaning.

"Are you _quite _finished looking at my arse?" Sherlock jests, finally reaching for his mobile.

"No, no not really."

Sherlock finally turns his head to the Doctor then, eyebrows raised in disbelief, "Well," He begins, before returning his attention to his phone, "You have until I finish talking with Lestrade" He says with a smirk and patting the bed beside him, "Come and play, John."

_Oh yes._

And so we see the beginning of one of Holmes and Watson's glorious morning rituals. An anatomical lesson by John Hamish Watson to one Sherlock _something_ Holmes (it takes a good many months for John to figure that one out). Yes, some of the best hours of John's life have been spent lying in 'Two Man's Land', a vast stretch of skin between Bedroom Door and Oak Armoire, _La Chambre de Sherlock_.

"Oh," John sighs, his troops making the first move, going 'over the top' and Sherlock feels battle hardened fingers on his territory "You and your _fossae lumbales laterales_..."

Sherlock whole body vibrates at that, starting from the great column of his throat all the way down, _gloriously_ down to his toes, which actually tense and _point_. Yes, John can't believe it either.

He should get out a seismometer next time; Charles Richter would definitely have something to say about this.

"I see you've found my Dimples of Venus, then?"

Sherlock can feel John's brow furrow at that and wiggles his hips a little as the hair tickles his skin.

"I thought you preferred to avoid romantical terms?" John asks, his voice now coming from around the trenches of Sherlock's _popliteal fossa, _or 'knee pit'.

"On the contrary John, the term 'Dimples of Venus' is an accepted term in the Medical Profession."

"I am known as _Doctor_ Watson, you know." John remarks, moving onto heavy artillery by baring his teeth and grabbing hold of Sherlock's right buttock and tugging slightly.

Sherlock throws his head back and laughs heartily at that, his cocoa curls of barbed wire dancing across his nape to prevent John from reaching the terrain he really wants to.

"Latin, a light petting session _and_ the body of Julia Stoner found this morning?" Sherlock sighs, swaying his hips to draw John's attention all the way up to the parapet of the _scapula_, "My, my, what a morning this is turning out to be..."

The iPhone beeps again, and Sherlock is soon typing away, which suits John just fine if it means he trace the outline of the loveliest little landmine of a freckle on Sherlock's C5 vertebrae without interruption.

Around four minutes without interruption to be exact. _Hmm._

John raises the white flag with a sigh, "You're done talking to Lestrade aren't you?"

"Yes...sorry John."

"S'alright", John says, smiling softly, giving Sherlock permission before the detective leaps out of bed with a flourish, "But give us a kiss before-"

Sherlock takes the words from his mouth, cupping John's head with both his hands and taking John's lower lip between his own, slowly tugging as John sighs in contentment and Sherlock swallows that too, pressing soft kisses against the corner of a thin, but pursed mouth until when he pulls away, John is left pouting with a rosy swollen under lip.

_Before what John? Before I leave? I may be going to Scotland Yard, and you may be going to visit Harry in a couple of days, but I'll never leave. Molly may lie right where you do in a matter of days, but I still won't_ leave. _I promise you this._

"Uhhh, thanks...?" John mumbles to himself with a frown, index finger trailing his numbing lip as a pair of pajamas is thrown out of the bathroom door and catch on the mahogany bedstead.

Sherlock appears then, or at least his head does, poking around the door frame, along with the just the slightest outline of his pale body and John realizes that this is the first time he has seen him _sans_ clothes, "No." Sherlock begins with a sincere smile, pressing his lips to the wood of the door frame is pause, "Thank you John."

* * *

><p>So John leans against the stained glass door that separates the kitchen from the living room, his battered leather suitcase at his feet and long since forgotten and stares. "I'm going now Sherlock." He says, gesturing to the front door with a nod.<p>

"Fine."

"You gonna' be alright while I'm gone?"

Sherlock tosses the Radio Times he was glancing through onto the Coffee table and it falls off the other side with a thud, "I managed thirty-three years without you, did I not?" He sneers, unbuttoning the cuff on his left arm and rolling up the sleeve.

"Yeah," John replies, picking up the suitcase as the cab he ordered to take him to St. Pancras honks his horn outside, "_Managed_ being the key word."

Sherlock slaps on a nicotine patch, waits a moment and then adds another for good measure after John mentions that Molly is going to come and check on him and he thinks '_she already coming'_ with a grimace.

"We are going to talk about this when I come back alright? Don't think I'll have forgotten Sherlock." John warns, checking his pockets one last time and opening the door.

"Wunderbar. Look forward to it."

John rolls his eyes and leaves the flat with a "Gargantuan prick", shutting the door behind him and feeling goddamn inclined to lock it as well.

One hour and forty eight minutes later – _should have been twenty three - _Sherlock rolls his eyes and leaves the living room and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and feeling (not goddamn, because non existent entities can't be _dammed_) inclined to lock it as well.

He strides to his armoire; pulls open the second drawer, takes out an Egona Libero doctor's case, and enters the code on the padlock (928766). Padlock removed, he lifts the lid, sighs a little in nostalgia at the needle and tourniquet and removes the tray they lie in. He then opens the dividers, pulling them outwards, lifting up a few bottles to search for the one he needs.

_Sildenafil Citrate_, diamond shaped and the colour of John's eyes in near blinding sunlight – _Oh. John._

Sherlock blinks a little too forcefully; removing the cork bore from the top of the glass bottle and dropping just one capsule into his open, somewhat sweaty (_why are you nervous? Stop it) _palm. Swallows the pill and grimaces at the bitter aftertaste.

Wishes it was a drug for recreation not _procreation_.

Now, now he will acknowledge the timid little woman kneeling on his bed, pulling at a loose thread of her lavender jumper.

"How long?" She mumbles with a blush, now pulling the ties on her patent brogues and slipping them off slowly.

He turns to her, before fixing the padlock on the case once again and putting it away, "Up to four hours apparently, though previous attempts have found me very...responsive" He says with an awkward smirk, before leaving the room.

_Molly's response was as hoped_, He thinks as he collects the samples from the kitchen cupboard – extracts from several bottles of hair dye found from Julia Stoners flat to be precise. Sherlock thought it might hold a poison of some sort to cause those red speckles, though it seemed she was rather fond of changing her hair colour and so made the experiment a lot more time consuming that he would have liked.

As much as the idea of innuendo repulsed him, the way Molly's eyes dilated when he said it showed that it had been effective in its use. _Shall have to remember that website, Cosmopolitan, seems like a reliable source_. He just hoped that the rest of his newly acquired knowledge from the website was equally as gratifying.

Sherlock returned to his bedroom and placed the microscope on the floor in the middle of the room, what with needing to place it on a flat surface and all. He asks for Molly's opinion, more out of a need to keep her occupied whilst the drug gets into his system than for a second opinion.

And so we find Sherlock and Molly kneeling in the middle of his bedroom, a lamp in the corner of the room casting a dull glow over the pair of them as they take turns to investigate the different samples, waiting for Sherlock to get an erection.

Don't worry, neither of them can quite believe it either. Although Sherlock hides it better (partially raised heart rate, slight headache) than Molly (is just _this_ close to saying Sherlcock), both of them are rather thankful to concentrate examining the sample of hair bleach on the slide – the _sixth_ sample to have been inspected this evening.

"There doesn't seem to be any anomalies with the structure." Molly says, pulling away from the ocular lens. "Do you have a sample of her hair?" She asks, tucking a strand of her own behind her ear.

"Here." He says, leaning back on his palms, watching intently as Molly fixes the slide into the stage clips and adjusts the nosepiece, noticing her hands tremble slightly.

He imagines she could be a rather attractive woman really. Lose the shapeless clothes that you would expect to find on either a prepubescent girl or a secondary school teacher close to retirement and she might actually have a frame of some sort. You know, hips, breasts etc. Sherlock would find out for himself soon enough. _Shudder._

"The...the cuticle seems raised." She mumbles.

Sherlock hums in approval of Molly's observation, "Excellent Molly. Unfortunately it's just a side effect of the bleach..." Sherlock holds back a gasp as he feels a twitch and is thankful for the lack of light in the room, "...Makes the hair more porous."

Molly throws him a glance at his rougher voice, and she fidgets a little. "So the hair dye has nothing to do with Julia's death?"

"So it would seem."

"Any other ideas?" She asks, taking a last look at the hair follicle before turning off the light source.

He takes a deep, calming breath, face tense in determination and shuffles behind Molly "One." He whispers in her ear and noticing her sharp intake of breath before taking the initiative. Or rather, placing his hands on her hips and _moving._

The slide in her hands falls and shatters when it hits the floor. Palms press down on the shards and she hisses, her body being pushed forward and Sherlock doesn't _care_ because she should have to feel one, just _one_ nanometer of the pain he knows he will feel by the end of the night.

Taking what he has researched, Sherlock pulls her legs apart and presses himself against her...you know. She sighs at that, pushing against him. He knows that's good.

Lifts her skirt, until it bunches around her hips. Then, grabs her 80 denier tights with one hand and pulls then down her knees. They tear but he carries on regardless, unbuttoning his blazer and tossing it as far away from him as possible.

"Sherlock..."

"Do you need preparing?" He blurts out, his fingers poised at his trouser buttons.

Molly breathy voice comes some seconds later, muffled by her heads proximity to the floor, "W-what?"

One button pops, and the sound hangs heavy in the room, "Do. You. Need. Preparing?" He sighs through clenched teeth.

Not the best way to suggest it, Sherlock knows. Should have said 'do you want me stroke your hot, wet pussy?' in that low, husky purr he knows he can use, but he is only willing to lose so much dignity in one night. Plus his fist might actually collide with the floor.

**Or maybe it will collide with Molly's face, because it she DARES to touch me there, her face will be unrecognizable, and it'll be-**

He's even shocked himself at that, though Molly thinks he's been knocked speechless by her hands. Definitely_ not_ the case. "Stop." He says sternly, swatting her hands away from his crotch and causing her to flinch.

"Don't you want me to-?"

"_No._"

"But-"

"Look!" He snarls, grabbing her shoulders and placing her on his lap, eyes wide in shock as he forces himself to rub himself again her, "Can you not _feel_ me?" Deep breath. Hold back gag reflex. "Is this not enough for you?"

Feeling a sudden force against his chest, Sherlock hits the floor with a thud, feeling dazed at the impact. Molly takes full advantage, trimmed nails digging into his hips and nuzzling the skin she is determined to find.

"Get on the bed." He says, his voice strained with anxiety, _not_ lust.

"Can't we do it like this?" She purrs, biting her bottom lip in what Sherlock believes is an attempt to look sexually enticing.

"No. Harder for semen to reach the cervix."

Sherlock's 'mood killing' goes on deaf ears. Molly's too far gone now, or perhaps the lens on her rose tinted glasses just isn't thick for her to notice as she wastes no time in removing her jumper, the remnants of her hosiery and unzipping her skirt but tripping over it as she makes her way to the bed.

She can crawl up the mattress all she likes, hips swaying side to side like a hypnotising pendulum, but Sherlock has never believed in the power of suggestion and most of all, he doesn't believe in _her_.

With his suit trousers joining the pile of clothes on the floor, he gets on the bed. Looks at Molly. Clean, plain white cotton bra and underwear. Of course. What else did he expect? She is living up to his expectations somewhat, lying on her back expectantly but with fumbling hands and flushed cheeks.

Suits him. The headboard may get a pounding but it won't be from her head. And it won't be from it hitting the wall either. It's going to be from his fist after she leaves with her metaphorical tail between her legs. That suits him too; at least it won't be _him_ between her legs. At least not anymore.

The woman mewls like a kitten when he bends down to remove her underwear. Giving in to his nagging obsession with information, fingers run over her, pressing, stroking, circling the nub that even _he_ knows is the metaphorical key to the city, the pearly gates, the stairway to heaven and many other similes that were used in his research.

_Muscle in right thigh quivers. Significant amount of perspiration behind the knees. I suppose one is meant to find this arousing? How odd._

With fingers twisting in the sheets (_that's good, saw that on a rather vivid film on Red Tube)_ the woman manages to lean herself up on her elbows, watching with fascination and panting like a dim witted hound, "_Sherlock_"

Recoiling from her form was covered as excuse to pull away to finally reveal himself, "Lie back down," He orders as she watches, her head lolling about – to far gone in lust. "Stop _looking _at me."

"But you're so big and-"

"Molly."

"-Oh god I want you inside of me-"

_One way to shut her up. Be strong. Part the thighs, one hand under the knee – oh the _sweat_ how foul – steady myself. Breathe. Intercostal muscles contract, diaphragm contracts and flattens, concentrate. _

His head is thrown back, eyes closed and bottom lip held between teeth. Hands firm under her knees and lifting them up and apart to lever himself (no way he is lying between them, avoid as much skin as possible), he looks a man in ecstasy.

Molly seems to agree with this theory, her body limp at the first feel of him inside her. Yes, she thinks he is in rapture, but he's not. He's taken himself to a different place entirely.

With the first roll of his hips, Sherlock senses one thing:

_Something profound has been lost. _

* * *

><p>Thank you so much to reviews, alerts, favourites etc. It means so much. Hope you are all enjoying reading it as much as i am writing it :)<p>

Nom-Omnis-Moriar


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

Siger's planted the olive trees. Fiend. As if destroying my collection of Anthophilia wasn't enough, the man dares to refuse me this.

Only a man such as him could deny a Priest his bible, an addict his self destruction, or his own son his sanctuary.

Nasal congestion. Weeping eyes. Presumed diagnosis confirmed: hay fever. Damnable allergies. Damnable Olea Cuspidata. Damnable Father.

Open eyes. Adolescent olive trees to left, cluster of Aloe Vera to right. State of biome suggests the year 1995.

1995. Cocaine. Psychoanalysis. _Sherrinford._

When I asked for a distraction, I did not ask for this, I asked for-

"You're naked."

There you are.

Confirm John's observation. As naked as Michelangelo's David. As naked as Mark Renton and Diane Coulston in Danny Boyle's 1996 Transpotting-

(Why do I know that? Delete?Yes/ NoYesAre you Sure you wish to delete this information?Can hardly be classified as 'information'. Trivia perhaps. Yes- Oh. Rainy Tuesday. John. His thumb tickling my instep. No. Perpetually No.)

-As naked as a cadaver, though I seem to be lying on a predominantly steel grey throw with mustard yellow as opposed to a steel trolley and have no desire to be covered in a sheet. Greenhouse's constant temperature of 17 degrees Celsius is more than adequate.

"So I am, John." Smirk at his slight embarrassment. He clears his throat. Clenches and unclenches right hand repeatedly. Wait for it...Ah, tongue laps at bottom lip once then disappears.

The man is as I see him best. Worn navy jeans, red flannel shirt with last button missing, dreadful brown leather loafers that always cause him trouble when we have to chase suspects and Royal Arms Medical Corps mug in left hand. Reads 'In Arduis Fidelis' – 'Faithful in Adversity'. Aren't you just John. Aren't you just.

He kneels beside me now, resting the mug on the terracotta tile by his knee. His thumb and index finger draw the viscous sap from the aloe, lingering it under his nose to take in its scent- earthy, slightly bitter, I can almost smell it myself.

Leans forward, strokes said thumb and index finger over my knuckles, and I recoil – it stings.

_Ah of course. Running down the stairs, lose footing – fall down last four, maybe five steps. Get up, ignore shooting pain in legs. Continue running, Mycroft at my heels, calling my name, thrust open front door, gravel of the drive stabbing under my bare feet and cold air aching, piercing my lungs. _

_Arms wrap around my waist and I kick, Mycroft dropping me after my foot hits his thigh. Run again, run into the shadows of the orchard and press my body up against the rough brick of the house to hide myself from my brother – who now walks with a slight limp. _

_He leaves my line of vision, and I scream, I fall to my knees and I scream. Fist collides with the wall but I laugh – Aha! – and I do it again, and again and again..._

_Pulled away from the wall and onto my feet, and I flail," Sherlock, no!", his hands on my shoulders forcing me to face him and I punch him in the chest and if it weren't for his amount of padding – his vest, his shirt, his waistcoat, his blazer – I might actually be able to hurt the bas- the... _

"My Sherlock?"

John. My John. I say as much, as breathless as if I was still sobbing against my wretched brother's chest. Don't think about that now.

He lies next to me now, on his side. His thumb still running over my sore, gashed knuckles. "It's nice, this." He gestures to the greenhouse, then leans forward to kiss my wounds, a small peck. How could such small a touch make me want to so desperately re-invent myself?

"It was my Father's and mine. Ours."

John picks up on it immediately, of course he does. "Was? Is he dead?"

I smile, though from John's reaction I expect it looks somewhat forlorn, "In real-time? Yes. In this universe, no." I begin to explain, pausing only when John rests his head upon my shoulder, "He is-was," I correct myself, "An amateur botanist."

He chuckles, "With a greenhouse like this? Amateur is not the word."

"True enough. A hobby of his then. The winter I turned eleven, my parents returned from a two month holiday touring the Mediterranean and, along with the promise of a new sibling, my father's newly found obsession with the foliage of said region-"

I stop to analyze the quizzical expression now before me, "New sibling?" He asks, raising his head.

Ignore. Clear throat and continue. "It was a project of sorts, creating this," I say with a sigh, nodding in the direction of a crowd of Capparis Spinosa – a caper bush-, heavy in a bloom of pure white petals and great needle-like violet stamens reaching outwards from its core. "Father and I spent hours in here, nurturing the plants, taking samples for experiments, Mycroft was so terribly jealous. So many times he would try and sneak in here, but only Father and I had a key." I finish with a chuckle, nuzzling into the skin of John's neck. It's wonderfully warm, slightly damp from the humid climate.

His voice comes from above me. "And then?" I still. He notices, kissing my forehead, and lifting my head up to level with his. "Another time..." A kiss on my right eyelid, "Another time." He repeats, before a kiss on my left, blessing me.

He is the Van Der Waals to my Macromolecular structure, holding me together, moulding me.

"Some years after this project begun- a few days after I got this-" I raise my hand for John to acknowledge, "I returned here, to find the olive trees. He'd planted them out of spite." I press my arm to my nose and sneeze, right on cue, "In my adolescence I had the most horrendous allergies – I was barely allowed out of the house in Summer, what with my Mother being somewhat of a hypochondriac- and my immune system responded in such a way that I could no longer return here. Pollen from Olive Trees is the worst trigger in the Mediterranean you see."

John is a very observant man. Not in the analytical sense like I. Not insensitive. If I could see myself, see my rigid posture, my inability to maintain eye contact, the tense muscles of my jaw and neck – the masseter in particular, see John, I do listen – and a certain rhythm i'm tapping subconsciously onto the tile with my right hand-one that I thought I had long since deleted-I would say Father issues. Sibling rivalry. Avoidant attachment. But this man, he sees emotion, he sees humanity reside within me and of course he wants to help! And he wonders why I continually refuse to see medical aid...

It's a 'chicken and egg' conundrum with John's overwhelming concern and his career. Dare not ask, as there is only one solution that I am willing to accept. The only experiment where I long for biased results.

He frowns at my fingers, trying to remember where he has heard it before. It was quite a popular song in 1995, and I can see John dancing to it in one of those 'indie' clubs, his pint spilling over the floor as he chants.

_I can see myself, bow in hand, arm thrashing until the friction made my fingers bleed in the early hours of the morning in the stable because I didn't want my Father or Mycroft to hear, not until it was perfected so I truly deliver this blow to them both._

_It was a demanding piece, not only because of my lack of interest in the song itself, but due to the immense variety of notes use. Nonetheless, rage is a powerful emotion, and married with vengeance I eventually found myself ready._

_I could not wait for their humiliation –my brothers at his failed attempt to fit in with the sexually affluent at University, his false adoration for 'British Rock' which seemed so popular at the time just so he could be accepted and my Father for having to turn to his newly 'favourite' son (or least despised in this case, he could only choose between the two of us now, after all) for answers, not having a care for music at all. _

_It took less than five seconds for my sibling to recognise the song as I stood on the Persian rug in the drawing room that evening –on what would have been Sherrie's seventh birthday - my lip bit in what my mother assumed was concentration. No, if only she wasn't swimming in a haze of fluoxetine and the Château La Conseillanteserved at Dinner, too busy tapping the tips of her French – Manicured nails against her palm in applause, she would've clearly see the quirk in the corner of my mouth. A smirk._

_Mycroft threw his book onto the floor, the spine splitting much like his composure when I casually lowered the violin from the crook of my neck, his fingers digging into the arm of the chair. Father positively glowers and I count gloriously, five...four...three...two...one – there it is! The glass of the snifter collapses in on it's self -another simile for composure-and the brandy spills onto the carpet and the fire spits. Poor Mother stops clapping immediately, her watery eyes shifting between the three of us, desperately trying to find the source of tension in the room._

"_Father, Brother," I begin, gesturing to each of them, keeping my tone mockingly polite, "Know that since that day eight months ago I have despised the very essence of you, that the very idea of sharing oxygen with you has been a tribulation and that I share your cursed genes is of more grief to me that any guilt or deprivation." Mother is crying at this point, sobbing wretchedly into her hands, with Mycroft at her side, stroking her shoulder awkwardly, mouth downturned in revulsion. Father has yet to move, another brilliant show of marital affection. I strive on, determined. "In three weeks time I am leaving for University. It would please me greatly if my eyes were never to fall upon you again."_

_Now for my curtain call. I bow, swiftly to my Brother and Father and then bow again to my Mother, slower this time, portraying my respect, my adoration – her trembling lips in a weak smile as I raise my head shows she understands. That is all I need. _

_Harsh deep breath through the nose, shoulders back, my head most certainly raised. "I wish Neurodegeneration on you both, you pair of insufferable, narcissistic cunts."_

"Distract me." I gasp, as though i'm out of breath, suffering from 'the Bends'.

He notices my poise, of course he does, and any man could, but he _acts_. He takes my hand immediately, noticing my distress, our warm fingers intertwining like the threads of wool on his wretched cable knit jumper. His lips touch mine and immediately thoughts of that time begin to bleed away.

Remnants of tea spills out of the tipped over mug, soaking into the porous terracotta but I ignore it. Father wouldn't be pleased. Small victories, I tell myself.

There is the sudden feel of softness under my back, and my eyes can see skyward – towards the canopy of Lemon, Olive and Italian Cypress- and beyond that, the tessellating hexagonal structure of the dome of the biome. Then that sight disappears as John's thumbs press against the corners of my eyes, beckoning me to close them. True enough, it does have a somewhat calming appeal.

Though not as calming as John taking my mouth again. The only comparison I can make is sucking at the flesh of a _persica_, when it's been left to ripe at room temperature. When you feel the pangs of undernourishment. Oh, and you are also a Frugivore – thereby making it the only food you wish to eat. Smooth, tender, warm and _wet_.

How is it that the word 'wet' has become suddenly arousing?

Do away with 'calming'. John Watson cupping your face and parting your lips with his tongue is not _calming_. It's slow, teasing, the thick, rigid organ slipping into me, my solo of harsh breaths forming a duet when John pulls away in pause, his nose nuzzling against mine.

_Most of my possessions are in trunks now, ready for my departure, only my skull and violin remain to console me. Since that night of my performance I have changed the locks three times, though he still comes reeling through the door, brandishing his pick gun – just to prove he can – and the threat of his malice in the physical form of a roller buckle tan leather belt that held nightmares for me as a child. _

I pull away; voice wavered, "Not working! John..."

"Not enough?" He pants above me, his lips are so _swollen_ and quirking up into a smile as my hands reach for his hips.

Reading my mind, he rolls me onto my side and rocks languidly against me, taking my mouth again, our tongues a metaphor for our desires and an intense heat coming from his skin, diffusing into mine and making me restless.

Lips press against my neck now, causing unexplainable spasms in my muscles, until I've managed to curl my entire body around him, with my head oh his shoulder, hand fisted into his shirt, as though I were a newborn in my mothers arms – and although that perhaps doesn't suit this situation, its comforting all the same when John rakes his hand through my hair, holding my head up to his, wide eyes the colour of pentahydrate Copper (II) Sulphate...

_I slam down the boot of the Jaguar and take a last look at what had been a prison of sorts for the last seven years. The apple orchard, the reed pond where I could observe the behaviour of the coots and mallards from my window, the stable where I would go to escape the daily trials of family life and lastly the greenhouse, with it's infamous Olive saplings._

_It holds nothing for me now. I turn to my Mother, her Chanel mascara now doing more harm than good to her appearance – dappled under her lower eyelids and beginning to trail with her tears down her cheek. I loathe to admit it's become a familiar sight. She leans up to kiss me on the forehead and hands me a rather heavy cardboard box, leaving her a free hand to press against her mouth to hold back a sob. I frown at the unrecognisable box I now hold in my hands, but I put it on the passenger seat just the same, curiosity once again getting the better of me. _

_I like to imagine Mycroft looking out of his bedroom window as I drive away, gravel spitting from under the wheels as I accelerate away from the house. I have barely passed through the wrought iron gates - the sight of Mother still standing on the drive a mere blimp in my front mirror before I pull into the side of the road and open the box that sits on the passenger seat. _

_The source of the great weight comes from my Mother's bust of Goethe – a fellow polymath - but I feel a greater weight comes from the other items in the box. _

_His Blaeu's map of the British Isles. His magnifying glass with the mother of pearl handle. But most importantly, his worn copy of 'The Dupin Mysteries', which would come to mean more to me than I could yet realise. _

"Do it John." I pant, whether from desire or anxiety I know not, "You must."

His is now untwining my legs with his, hand under my right knee to cock my leg, thigh nearly pressing against my side. I welcome the slight twinge of cramp as his eyes feasts upon me – my desire for him no longer hidden by the tangle of our limbs.

"Just look at you." He whispers against my temple, pressing a soft kiss there "Look how bloody beautiful you are. Can you hold your leg like that for me? I want to see every inch of you..."

_Arrive at University. Place belongings in room. Then take the precious Holmes Jaguar XJ (X300) to dealer and sell. Use money to buy cocaine. A new life begins. _

My hands grabs again at the material of his shirt, my head burrowing into the crook of his neck to muffle a groan at the first touch of his warm palm cupping me between my legs, my hips rutting against him like a _mammalia_ in heat.

He is forever the SSRI that lasts, not one that simply dissolves on the tongue. Would offer to the NHS if I weren't so possessive.

There are many things I learn to appreciate in this dream of John and I.

First, that I am willing to endure not only physical pain – the severe cramp now burning in the anterior muscles of my thigh – but also mild humiliation in the form of said anterior muscles allowing me to thrust frantically into John's hand, now firmly wrapped around the base of me, because I know that it's a worthy sacrifice if it pleases him.

Secondly, that all matters of 'being better than this' are thrown out of the metaphorical window. A metaphorical window that just so happens to be on the top floor of a sky scraper as far as I am concerned, so that all niggling issues I have are well and truly eradicated. Do I despise myself for allowing myself to be reduced to basic human desires, or do I despise myself for _enjoying them? _Furthermore, do I despise myself enough to _stop_? Certainly not. Under no circumstances will I push John away from me.

Last of all, that this blush that I know is blooming across my chest and up my neck, this intense ache I feel in the pit of my stomach and an intense need to cry out that can only be held back by biting down on John's shoulder, its biology yes, but more importantly its _chemistry_.

_Mycroft opens my bedroom door to leave Baker Street (and hopefully this planet altogether,) hand still lingering on the brass handle and sight still lingering on the sight of John's tartan blanket pooled at the bottom of my bed. "On day he'll get to you." He warns, lips puckered patronisingly, before leaving in a flourish._

_I pick up the blanket and throw it out of the room in rage. He already _has_, Mycroft. He already has. _

It's chemistry in the way that John _looks_ at me with those eyes, the way he _touches _me with those hands. The way I am an acid and he an alkali, combining to make something more neutral – no, more _stable_.

"Oh God, you're close aren't you?"

I take a shuddering breath, mumbling incoherently as his thumb trails over my tip, "Yes John..."

His hand leaves me to tip my face towards him, "Are you going to come for me?"

I feel my face contort at that, "Afraid..." I gasp, afraid of being _this_ close to someone during a very vulnerable period.

Afraid because I keep seeing flashes of a mahogany bedstead and a writhing body that _isn't_ John's. It's got curves instead of sharp lines and its hair is long and fanned out across the pillow instead of just sticking up at angles. I know I haven't long.

"I know you're nearly there, and i'm going to be right there with you." He says, taking me again and carresssing me from my base to my tip, looking into my eyes the entire time. "It's all fine. Let go, Sherlock."

My head falls back as I willingly give myself to him, my body, my want, my restraint. "John..." I say through clenched teeth, wrapping my right arm around his neck to pull him closer as I feel this movement between us reach its climax. "John!"

* * *

><p>The first thing Sherlock feels is the mahogany headboard beneath his fingers, which are stiff from gripping it for so long. There is a trail of sweat that he can feel running from behind his ear and down his nape and a sudden weight in his limbs as though the bone has been replaced with cadmium.<p>

There is the distinct sound of heavy breathing. Of two people's heavy breathing. Sherlock recognises the pattern perfectly to that of someone who has just copulated. That's when it all comes back to him.

Looking down, he finds one Molly Hooper lying between his thighs and he can _smell_ her and feel the heel of her right foot still pressing into her lower back where she must tried to beckon him down on top of her. Her eyes are closed, though one of her hands is creeping up his thigh.

"Off." Sherlock orders, though it comes out slightly less stern than he'd hoped – obviously the oxytocin and prolactin. He pulls up his underwear, ignoring the shocked wide eyes that are now staring up at him before falling onto his side – _the whole bed is _my_ side – _of the bed. "Leave. Now."

"What?" She mumbles breathlessly, turning her head towards him and closing her legs now that she's beginning to come down from her high.

Sherlock turns onto his side, away from Molly and clamps his eyes shut to try and remove the overpowering amount of stimuli, "Leave. Now." He repeats, mumbling a '_Please_' under his breath.

He hears her slowly get up from the bed and tip-toe around the room to collect her clothes before rapidly getting dressed. He may have his eyes closed but he can tell she's abandoned her tights and also from her sudden hiss of pain has caught the skin of her hip in the zip of her skirt from trying to leave in a hurry.

"Right, I guess...I guess I'll let you know then?" Her voice sounds shaken and for once Sherlock doesn't feel like asking whether it's from her orgasm or whether its shock from being kicked out of his bed.

Sherlock nods although he doubts she will see it from behind him. The bedroom door closes. He punches the headboard as promised, cradling his fist as the pain sparks up his arm with a cry. No doubt Molly heard.

He can't stand to be in this bed – in this room – any longer and so sprints to John's room, a little shaky on his legs and curls into the foetal position on John's tartan blanket. He takes his mind to a place of Olive trees, spoiled terracotta tiles and the sound of a breathless '_Sherlock_' against his Doctors lips.

A time that never happened at all.

* * *

><p>I'm offering a 750 word prompt piece for the first person to guess the song. The clues?<br>- The artist is a British Rock Band  
>- It was a single in 1995<br>- The subject of the song is narcissism  
>- It is known for the large number of different chords used<br>- Both the album the song was featured in and some of the lyrics are included in this chapter somewhere

Just a little reward to dedicated readers and/or music enthusiasts - both of which I respect greatly! Good luck!


	5. Chapter Four

**25th August 2010**

Don't hate Sherlock. Don't be angry with him. If it's any consolation, he's punishing himself enough; he certainly doesn't need to be further punished from others.

Today is just such an example.

The call came just as the man had settled down to watch a documentary on Water Torture, mug of not-John's-exceptional-quality tea resting on his stomach as he sprawled the great extensions of his limbs to cover as much of the sofa as humanly possible, huffing under his breath when he realised he had turned the volume up to 22.

The volume is changed to 20 because two presses of the button is significantly less movement than _three_ presses. Volume is too low however, and although the shrill tenor of the twenty-something, _completely ignorant to what she's talking about due to the way she continually struggles to pronounce '__Hippolytus de Marsiliis__'_ woman doing the voiceover is nagging at his Primary Auditory Cortex, the volume is increased to 25. His body can now stop acting as though it is inflicted with Rigor Mortis, for a good 4 minutes and 47 seconds before his phone vibrates in the pocket of his sapphire silk gown.

Due to Sherlock's rather bad habit of never actually checking _who_ the caller is before accepting the call, he finds himself momentarily startled when a timid little voice reaches his ears. The voice, or rather the person to whom the voice belongs, has been barely neither seen nor heard for a good four weeks and three days.

It really is a very short conversation, and even then it's somewhat longer than it ought to have been, due to the lingering silence between her little stutterings.

_Something about seven weeks. Healthy development. **Heartbeat. **_

Sherlock makes no contribution except to end the call, actually managing to time it for when _after_ the voice at the end of the line says goodbye on this occurrence, thankfully. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting around the room, followed by a quick, sharp intake of breath – standard procedure for an epiphany, sure enough – but not usually followed by Sherlock lunging off the sofa and tearing off his clothes.

Erythema is already beginning to show on his stomach, the reddening skin prickling from the scalding tea that has managed to form pools on the sofa, the coffee table and even splash up the wall. If it were blood Sherlock would have found it rather fascinating, although he can't help thinking the tea is somewhat better off on the furnishings – it tasted foul.

He trudges across the flat, as naked as a newborn ba-

_As naked as one would expect when you about to have a shower_, he thinks persistently, shutting the bathroom door behind him and pulling back the shower curtain a little too forcefully – three hooks fall off the curtain rod.

A small plastic beaker sits on the corner of the bath – has done for some time – John thinks it's for an experiment, going by the conical flash containing what could only be some form of sulphur going by the smell (which explains why he hasn't touched it) still under the sink, but it isn't.

At least not anymore.

Sherlock knocks the beaker out of his line of vision with the back of his hand with a sneer, there's no need for it any longer. He turns on the water, pausing to adjust the temperature, a cold shower to stop thoughts of a sexual nature yes, but what of thoughts so achingly unrelenting that you want to simply want to scream until if feels as though there is barbed wire trapped in your lungs?

Hmm, he doubts there is truly an optimum temperature to get rid of thoughts like that.

He attempts the standard procedure for a shower: washes body, spends about 6 minutes trying to get the last bit of shampoo out of the bottom of the bottle – ends up losing his patience and quirts the bottle so enthusiastically that most of it ends up swirling down the plughole – finally gets around to washing his hair...

But its the stinging of his eyes sometime later that allows him to realise how long he's been standing – no, he's kneeling now- in the middle of the tub, utterly stagnant – unlike the water which is still pouring from the shower head – with shampoo trailing down his forehead and catching in his eyelashes.

_Seven weeks. Time of conception: 5__th__-12__th__ July, although there is a slight degree of inaccuracy, certainly _not _late June. June 28__th__, to be more precise. _

_Not June 28th. Not then. A waste. A complete and utter waste._

* * *

><p>John's a patient man, which considering his flatmate, is an absolute <em>Godsend<em>.

Therefore, after returning from a weekend in Manchester attending a Cousin's _(who is already cheating with a cross-dressing Primary School Teacher John, it would be a wasted investment in going_) Wedding, so outstandingly hung-over he swears he can feel his brain peel away from his skull and in desperate need of a shower (because he spent most of the morning not _quite_ making it from other side of the bathroom) but hears the shower running from the instant he enters the flat, he isn't particularly bothered.

He is perhaps so _not_ bothered that he makes a cup of tea -that turns out having to be black because the milk carton has been filled with either watered down ketchup or blood (_please be the former...)_ – and even smiles at the sight of Sherlock's garments lying haphazardly across the room before sitting down on the sofa (avoiding the puddle) and turning on the telly.

During an advert break though, (in particular, a Tampax advert, because lets face it, all men avoid those like the plague) he notices it's been at least 45 minutes since he came home. Furthermore, the pipes aren't beginning to rattle which means –

-The hot water spewing from the kitchen tap confirms his suspicions.

Doing some detective work of his own – he'd like to think living this long with Sherlock has earned him more than just higher blood pressure and a much more Type A personality - John presses his ear against the Bathroom door, attempting to ignore the sound of the shower itself (_it's the small things John, always the small things_) until he notices the dull, echoing thud, thud, thud coming from inside.

The thudding stops as soon as he opens the door.

The mirror isn't fogged up, there is a lack of mist in the room, and it certainly isn't sticky and humid as one would expect after showering in a room with no ventilation. It's a miracle that Mycroft isn't banging the front door down.

"_Shit_." John thinks, finally taking in the silhouette of his flatmate huddled in the bathtub, barely under the spray of the shower head. The outline of his body is blurred – Sherlock is shivering.

First he surrounds the edge of the bath in towels, not only to soak up the puddles that have formed but also to be kinder to his knees. His deductions are confirmed: the water is barely lukewarm.

John has no intention of simply throwing back the curtain and demanding Sherlock to get out, but even reaching his arm behind the curtain to alter the temperature to something less hypothermia-inducing causes the silhouette to flinch.

"Hey." John says calmly, fingers lingering on the dial, "I'm just turning it up, ok? Don't want you getting sick in there."

Seeing the sharp nod of Sherlock's head through the curtain, the temperature is increased and John returns to his position on the floorboards, "What happened – failed experiment?"

The voice that responds is hoarse, so Sherlock is either emotionally compromised or sick. John hopes it's the latter – it's the lesser of two evils. "What ever makes you think that, _John?"_ He asks, voice breaking at the last word.

"The beaker?"

The silhouette scoffs, "No, successful in fact." The shape behind the curtain moves to tuck his knees under his chin – at least that's what it looks like. "A _positive_ result." He adds under his breath.

"I'd err, I'd offer you a cup of tea but I reckon it would refill quicker than you could drink it." John asks with a forced laugh. It was bad enough having a one – sided conversation with Sherlock when the man was in front you. It was a whole other _realm _of awkwardness when the man was hiding behind a shower curtain and under what seemed to John as some sort of self inflicting water torture.

Sherlock huffs, but moves his body so it's more under the spray, so John must be getting somewhere.

Clean sheets and towels are placed in the airing cupboard. The _John's-not-responsible_ toothpaste stains are scrubbed from the basin of the sink. Two Nurofen are popped from their capsule and swallowed with relief, after being found behind a jar of bath salts preserving what looks like a newt in the medicinal cupboard above the sink. In other words, John undertakes any bathroom related activities available so that he can stay with Sherlock, because the man is refusing to budge.

Refusing to talk too, apparently.

Then, the bathtub squeaks with the movement of the body inside, and a single hand appears from behind the curtain, trembling a little. The tips of his fingers are splayed a little – John likes to think he's reaching out to him.

He speaks so softly, his lips barely move to accommodate his words, "Hey you." Almost instinctively reaching out for the hand, and clasping it between both of his. "What's going on in there?"

"I'm having a shower." Silhouette replies matter-of-factly.

"That's funny; I don't think many people have showers sitting in the tub. Away from the actual water." John says, clutching the hand tightly when it attempts to slide back behind the veil, "Not to mention _hitting their head against the tile_."

The '_yeah-don't-think-I-haven't-figured-that-out-Sherlock' _resonates around the room quite effectively, and John doesn't bother to attempt to make his stern 'parenting' face through the vinyl.

"It's an old habit, I didn't even..." Sherlock pauses, hand clenched so hard his _brachioradialis _is a great ridge of wavering tissueunder his talcum skin, "I didn't even _know_ John."

"I know, I know. Have you hurt yourself?"

"Don't know. Would assume so. Can't feel it yet." He moves to entwine their fingers together, fingers so long over a hand so small that they can brush against the curve of John's ulna artery, delivering oxygenated blood to his hand, so that same hand can be there to hold Sherlock this very moment. It's magnificent.

Well, there wasn't a pinkish tint to the water swirling down the plughole (yes John did check, he's that concerned) so he tolerates Sherlock's vanishing act a little longer.

John moves to lean his side against the bathtub, head leaning on the porcelain, "Look, this isn't exactly my area of expertise, but..."He stops to press a kiss to on Sherlock's knuckle because tactile stimuli always maintains the detective's concentration better than auditory – "it's usually triggered by stress right?"

Sherlock translates the following silence into _'I gave myself to someone I could not care for, and it was all for nothing. The depth of my feelings for her is as shallow as the beaker which eventually allowed me to impregnate her. It never mattered to me, John, the concept of virginity. Of course, now it's gone, it does. It matters so very much. I see now it should have been for you John and i'm angry. And I'm angry that I'm angry on what I previously thought was such a trial matter, but that does not stop the ache.'_

John's is a simple _'yes'_, to confirm Sherlock's self harm to himself, but the radiation of it's significance – a great, pulsing sonar leeching from within him – is no stronger than his companions.

His hand is drawn into the shower, and his _pacinian corpuscles_ eagerly respond to the stimuli of wet, warm skin – though definitely slightly more swollen than he'd like. There is blood rushing to that bruising tissue, making Sherlock's left cheekbone all the more pronounced, no doubt.

He can visualize the pools of yellow and indigo the man will have to carry in the next few days, like drops of ink rippling outwards in blotting paper -the making of a living, breathing Rorschach test. Though John doesn't know how he would perceive it.

"Come on now, Sherlock." John says with a sigh, though with an underlying tone of demand that he is sure he has borrowed from the man behind the curtain. Thankfully the head still cupped in his hand nods.

With the Water Torture finally eradicated, John gingerly pulls back the curtain – though just enough to see the oxymoron of composed chaos inside.

As confirmed, Sherlock has his knees up against his chest, arms wrapped around them and face buried into his shoulder, eyes just peeking out at the man looming over the bath. There is a single drop of water on his face that perhaps holds more significance than it should, as it slides over the ridge of his bruising cheekbone.

There is an unspoken, unanimous agreement to not talk about this very droplet. But both of them are fully aware of its origins.

In fact, it is not until the pair of them move to a completely-not-modest five bedroom cottage in the Sussex Downs in the far future, sat in a pair of wing backed chairs – an extremely significant pair of wingback chairs that have the most _extraordinary_ story behind them – that John will finally admit to his Sherlock that seeing him so vulnerable, with quivering limbs and looking up at him with bloodshot eyes that day in the bath, that he thought him thoroughly ravishing.

Sherlock will laugh at John's sadism, "Perhaps we ought to swap chairs." He'll say.

(Admittedly, you won't get the joke until you hear about the chairs.)

Anyway, back to the here and now, and Doctor John Watson – Doctor because that is the way he is trying to go about this, very _professional_ – wrings the remaining droplets of water out of the matt of curls as Sherlock stands awkwardly in the middle of the room in his pyjama trousers. They are practically jet black in colour now they're wet, curling and wrapping around his fingers like vines.

"Arsenic."

John pauses mid dry-down, "You what?" He gasps.

"This reminds me of the case with the arsenic." Sherlock says softly, reaching to remove the towel from John's hands. "Can you not remember?" He adds with a frown and slight puckered lip, holding John's face as a Priest may hold a chalice.

There has, after all, been many a case involving arsenic, even though it's _so_ last Century, but none holds quite as much significance as the particular case that Sherlock and John are referring to.

There are the loveliest little crinkles all over John's face. Valleys and chasms that have been eroded into his skin by age and what Sherlock imagines is a tough life, but that now show now from mirth. Sherlock made this weathered face beautiful. This makes him very hap – I mean placid – indeed.

"How could I forget?" John breathes, eyes closing innately.

Lips decrease the distance of the diffusion pathway – a transfer of heat and tongue so efficient that the pair of them are writhing in moments. Sherlock's hands press against John's lower back, beckoning him almost on to tip-toe to increase the surface area of skin on skin. Sherlock stumbles backwards - bringing John with him - until the taller man hisses from the cold porcelain of the skin pressing against his own back.

"-Starting to think you just do this to distract me from more important matters-"John mumbles with a stern glare, teasing Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth in magnificent punishment.

"Not true John," Sherlock retorts, squeezing his Doctors hips with a lop sided smile, "_Last_ time you said we were going to 'talk about something', you completely forgot of you own accord."

John slaps his flatmate's arm playfully, firstly because he is such a smart arse and secondly because John feels stupid because, no, he can't remember what the hell they were supposed to have talked about, _whenever this occasion what supposed to have happened._ Obviously wasn't that important _anyway_. So there.

"Come on you." He says, pressing a soft kiss to the coloured cheekbone, "Bed."

Bed in the _i'm bloody shattered _way, not the _we've just rutted against each other in the bathroom now lets pick somewhere a tad more appropriate _way, because John is such a softie deep down, he has a slight problem with ravishing Sherlock after his ...what? Episode? Brake down? Retraction to childhood coping strategies?

Some hours later, under the protection of midnight hours, soft sheets and even softer skin wrapped around him, Sherlock squeezes a hand resting on his hip and whispers into the darkness, "John, i'm going to be a Father."

* * *

><p><strong>26th August 2010<strong>

In the twenty – something times (_Oh _sorry_ Sherlock, I can't remember the exact number of times, unlike you. How you can remember the number of times I've offered you a piece of my toast since we became flatmates, or the number of times we've shared a bed but not recall the legend of Harold's arrow-to-the-eye at the Battle of Hastings, nobody knows_) that John and Sherlock had shared a bed, John woke up to Sherlock a _lot_ of the time. Surprisingly.

As a matter of fact, apart from the instance where John woke up to Sherlock's bum and legs in the air, just the other wide of the bed because the Detective decided to test how long he could withstand the head rush from hanging over the edge of the mattress (for what turned out to be for no reason other than to keep himself occupied until John awoke), Sherlock usually clung to John like an atom to it's 1s sub-level electrons in the morning.

On this occasion, John still wakes up to Sherlock or at least wakes up to the feel of Sherlock. The rise and fall of his chest, a little faster and shallower than one would expect during mid-morning drowsing. So, John opens his eyes, and finds that some _very_ dilated pupils are looking right back at him.

"What the-"

Sherlock breaths sharply through his nose - head shaking slightly from the force of it - lying on his back and legs fidgeting in the sheets.

John shuffles himself closer to the body beside him, doesn't bother asking Sherlock _are you alright?/what's the matter?/how's your eye you stupid prat?_, because he knows what the look Sherlock is giving him means. It's a long time coming.

Sherlock grabs the hand lying on his chest and begins to slide it down, staring into John's eyes the entire time with deep shuddering breaths. John soon pushes against the movement of the hand so a thumb can swipe over a dusky pink nipple, his lover (is that what he is now?) taking his bottom lip and biting down _hard _to hold back.

_Bit too late for that_, John thinks, digging in his nails as Sherlock drags his hand towards his belly button, and pauses. The man is a panting, whimpering mess, who may have years worth of inhibitions slowly oozing out of him, but still has enough control of his body to remove John's hand entirely.

And place it immediately on his crotch. John's eyes fly open, cursing under his breath and Sherlock smirks all-knowingly, hips rolling into John's palm.

"God, what's gotten you into this state?" John begins slowly, hand clenching a little around the base of Sherlock's cock, still hidden by his pyjamas before moving his hand to turn Sherlock's face to him, "What do you want?" He mumbles into the taller man's ear.

The thumb pressing against Sherlock's lips is taken into his mouth, and he laps at the pad teasingly, humming around the skin, before releasing it with a pop, "Touch me John." He whimpers, giving the thumb a long lingering lick from base to tip for good measure.

"Alright, spread your legs for me."

It's a simple enough order, but it's the underlying tone of _Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers_ that has Sherlock slowly inching his thighs apart as John clambers over to lie in between them (somewhat clumsily, he has just woken up, after all), his face immediately going to nuzzle the lovely crease of skin between hip and thigh.

"Feel bad," Comes John's muffled voice from somewhere around his lover's inner thigh, summoning him to lean up on his elbows, "Here we are, our first time being intimate together, and all I can think about is sucking your c-"

"John, _yes_."

"Yes?"

Sherlock presses his elbows deeper into the mattress - fists in the sheets and head thrown back - as John cradles his balls in his hand, mouth still dampening the material around his inner thighs.

"Alright," John begins, ignoring Sherlock's pout as he moves his hand, "Last chance to back out." As he now moves his hand to the hem of Sherlock's trousers. "Whaddya say?"

"_Yes_." Sherlock croaks, lifting his hips – almost all of his back too in his enthusiasm – "A thousand times _yes_."

And so, with a giddy fervour John hadn't felt since 19-bloody-90 (And Sherlock since well...forever), he pulls Sherlock's trousers swiftly down his legs and over his shoulder.

As expected, Sherlock is thoroughly ravaged. His thighs shake and twitch with the waves of heat in his lower belly and so John's first task is to bend his lover's legs at the knee, stroking the trembling muscles to try and prevent the onset of cramp.

Sherlock gasps "Are you _meant_ to feel like this?" as John kisses down his thigh; hands under his knees to control Sherlock's movement, somewhat.

"Like what?"

"I can't get enough _air_, i'm boiling, and I feel unhygienic, exposed...-" He pauses to take a sharp, juddering breath through his nose – the sight of John's head moving down, ever closer, seemed almost too much, "And yet, I have no intention of letting you stop...how is that?"

John smiles brightly, removing his hold of Sherlock's knees to lean forward and capture Sherlock's mouth for a soft kiss to calm his nerves, before returning to the task at hand," Welcome to sex Sherlock. That's what it is. You can read about the chemistry all you like, but it's about offering all you have, all your concerns, your wants, your fucking _everything_ and the other person showing you in return."

With raised eyebrows, and a quivering underlip, Sherlock groans "Show me then...please?"

"Alright, budge up the bed then, seeing as you want to watch." John adds with a wink. Sherlock complies by propping up the pillows, rather too eager to care about his kink being so obvious, "Better, right?"

Sherlock nods, shuffling a little to get comfortable -his cock swaying a little at the movement - "Now I can do this." He says, one hand reaching forward to bury in John's hair.

Arms now curl under the backs of Sherlock's thighs, fingers bruising the skin of his hips, as John places the first of many kisses at the base of Sherlock's cock.

Kisses continue up the length, soft and innocent (as you can get in this circumstance, anyway), just enough to allow Sherlock to equilibrate, John receiving only the slightest shiver or hitch of breath in response.

Then Sherlock turns his head and buries it deep within the pillow, stuttering "_John.._." his hand no longer stroking John's hair but _claiming_ it as John places a lingering kiss on his urethra.

"No, look at me Sherlock. Come on; look at what i'm going to do."

He dares to lift an eyelid, taking in the sight of John's hand wrapped around the base of him, before cautiously turning his head to its original position. The pair of them shares one last lingering glance, before John bends down and takes Sherlock fully into his mouth.

Sherlock entire body goes rigid, so much so that every muscle trembles, "Oh _Jesus_..."

The profanity earns him a quick glance as John moves upwards, his cheeks hollowing at the suction as he goes – which Sherlock must like because his other hand now moves with his other to cradle John's head.

Whether it's all the adrenaline from yesterday, or the intensity and significance of this occasion, Sherlock soon feels the heat change from a smoulder to an aching, pulsing burn, "J-john I think-"

John releases Sherlock's cock, face flushed and lips swollen, "S'alright," He says with a tender smile, entwining their fingers together and taking Sherlock again.

It doesn't take long for the heat to build up again, not with John making little whimpering noises of his own as his mouth moves up and down Sherlock's length.

"Oh John, oh shhhi- ohhhh!"

And with that, Sherlock clamps his eyes shut, and comes hard against the back of John's throat.

When he opens his eyes again, John is lying against him with an arm thrown over his chest and placing soothing kisses across his shoulder, "Sherlock, which receptors on the post-synaptic membrane are affected by cocaine?" He asks with a smirk.

"Haven't the foggiest." He slurs, throwing his hand behind John's head sluggishly and consuming his mouth and his laughter.

* * *

><p>I'm taking prompts people! You can either do it on Tumblr, inbox me FF dot net or send an email to katielizabeth92 at hotmail dot co dot uk - be anon if you like!<p>

Thanks for all the responses, and if anyone wants to read about the famous 'Arsenic Case', it can be found as part of my other work called 'Elementary Dear'.

Oh! And feel free to add me for all manner of Sherlockian loveliness on Tumblr : nom-omnis-moriar dot tumblr dot com


	6. Chapter Five

**August 27th 2010**

If anyone behaved the way Sherlock had done for the last two days, they wouldn't get away with it. There would be smothering by friends and relatives, perhaps _appointments. _But Sherlock is, well, Sherlock, and as John will say in the future 'he does all that anyway'.

You know, the not eating. The not sleeping. The sometimes-not-talking-for-days-on-end. The screeching and wailing of his violin, which is only an extension of himself, really.

So, nobody notices. John presumes Sherlock is just going through a dark phase, _which does happen sometimes_, he'll convince himself, _lack of cases and all that_. John continues to prepare meals, has 'conversations' with the Detective and leaves his bedroom door open a tad at night, just in case. All are well and truly ignored by Sherlock.

The man himself spends the hours festering on the sofa, drowning in thought. But it's not thoughts of a possible epidemic of the Chikungunya virus in New York that he read about a few days ago. It's not even on this week's alterations to the Underground and London's major road works – which he usually updates every Friday. No, his mind fixes on a rather different aspect of his life entirely.

It all comes to a head when John passes Sherlock a glass of water, and it slips right through his fingers and smashes onto the floor. Sherlock doesn't flinch. Hell, he doesn't even blink.

"Right, come on you," He sighs, helping Sherlock onto his feet, "Let's stop those thoughts, hmm?" He adds with a rather intriguing little grin that has Sherlock shuffling behind him towards the bedroom.

The first time Sherlock wakes up that night, its fine, it's all fine. Eyes creep open, and he's barely pulled back his arm from dangling over the edge of the mattress (it's just one of those...those human things isn't it? Not feeling comfortable with exposed body parts whilst trying to sleep) when he feels a hand bunch in the sheet atop his chest and John's head nuzzling his shoulder, mewing a little in protest at the fidgeting. Sherlock places his hand atop John's, smiles unintentionally, notices his pining and becomes annoyed with himself, before eventually drifting asleep again.

The second time Sherlock wakes up that night (technically its morning now, it you want to be picky, or you know, want to be Sherlock) it's _more_ than fine. He either hears John first, or feels John first, he's not particularly sure. John is half on top of him, sucking at his nipple lazily, and his hand palming the skin around it.

"Mmmm, what're y'doing?" Sherlock slurs, voice thick with sleep.

John shrugs his shoulders, lips still latched onto skin but skimming downwards, sloppily kissing every rib and all the valleys in between.

"S'nice..."

After stretching a little, Sherlock cups the back of John's head to catch his attention. He gets a lazy smile in response before John - his eyelids still heavy and the blush of sleep blooming his cheeks - slips completely under the sheet.

Nothing else happens for a few moments after that, Sherlock knows John's lying on his stomach between his thighs based on the changed contours of the sheet (and the fact that he can feet hot breath through his pyjamas, against his right inner thigh that's enticing enough to keep him awake, _cheers for that John_) but the Doctor doesn't exactly seem to be in any rush.

This doesn't necessarily bother Sherlock, he's all for slow, languorous, (but in no ways half-arsed) explorations between the two of them. Like when John got hacked off at Sherlock's ability to write a 'novel length' email in just a matter of moments a couple of days ago, and decided to wretch one of his hands from the keyboard. John tickled Sherlock's palm with his tongue, pressed lips so firmly to his wrist Sherlock was _sure_ he would feel a pulse and then proceeded to suck his thumb until it positively _tingled_ all the way from his crown on his head...to well...the crown near his _other_ head.

(Admittedly, Sherlock then had a bit of a strop because the email he had sent missed three apostrophes, two commas and one misplaced semi colon. According to him that made him sound like 'a moronic imbecile' and the sexual tension soon reduced to _just_ tension, that only returned to its predecessor later that evening once John coaxed Sherlock into eating by passing food into his mouth from his own lips. That gets rather messy with Pavlova in case you were wondering, John will be sure to thank Mrs Hudson most enthusiastically when he next sees her.)

The point trying to be made is that Sherlock likes it when John takes his time. But taking your time is a damn sight different to _not actually doing anything at all_, which is what John's decided to do this very instant.

Thankfully, Sherlock's still in that heavy–limbed, 'wool-stuffed-head' place between asleep and properly awake, so buries his head deeper in to the pillow and-

"...Wakey wakey..."

Sherlock has just enough time to decipher the muffled sound from under the sheet, before he is thoroughly consumed by John's mouth - for the second time since they had come to bed. He breathes in air through his clenched teeth so sharply they sing with sensitivity and he suddenly finds that his body at least, is very, _very_ awake.

He could have _sworn _he wasn't hard, and he could have _sworn _he wasn't naked. In a moment's clarity where John stills, Sherlock notices the distinct pressure of the waistband at the front of his trousers tucked just under the base of him, pressing and rubbing with just the slightest movement from either of them. John may be still half asleep, but even Sherlock knew that this particular arrangement of his clothes was intentional.

John's less cautious this time around, whether from it's from his half-conscious state or not, Sherlock isn't particularly sure and he doesn't particularly _care_, because at that precise moment he feels his cock hit the back of John's throat and the hum of his larynx rippling across his glans and this, this right here, is all that could ever matter.

"Uhhhhhhhhhh..." Somebody groans loudly, muffled by the back of a hand.

Then Sherlock stills for a moment, because it was _him_ making that shameless sound (although now his cheeks are prickling a little) and John's _not_ disgusted and he's certainly not stopping. Sherlock pinches John's head between his thighs this time around, as he feels a warm, deliciously sweaty palm around his base, an heir for John's mouth on the upstroke and an ancestor for the down stroke.

John pulls away for breath, with a long lingering suck on the head and Sherlock's cock sways a little from the enthusiasm, slapping against John's lips. It's one of those rather –awkward – yet – stupendously – arousing – at – the – same – time kind of things. Like finger sucking. Or that string of saliva that sometimes happens when you pull away from a kiss.

With lips barely pouted around the head, simply lingering to test Sherlock's sturdy-as-a-triple-bond restraint, John reaches his hand downwards and cups Sherlock, holding him more firmly in his mouth as the Detective squirms from the added stimulation.

Sherlock rocks his hips then, mind still drugged with being forced out of Stage 4 sleep but his body thoroughly awake and John eagerly responds to the cock pressing against his lips by swallowing it once more.

And oh God, it _tingles_. With one hand buried in his own hair and the other clutching at the sheet, he pants quietly to himself as that eloquent tongue curls around him, John beckoning him to the brink.

It's doesn't feel like the pair of them are simply entwined together, in the early hours of the morning, with linen sheets to keep them warm and wandering hands to keep them _hot_. The pair of them so lethargic and inebriated in sleep it almost feels like a scene from a parallel universe.

Well, that's according to John, and his interest in _that_ genre. In the past, Sherlock had wasted no time in showing his displeasure by bunching up his face and scoffing '_Science Fiction? Is that not just the quintessential oxy-moron? Surely the main concept of science is that it is concrete.' _John retaliated by commenting on Sherlock's multiple chins. It's didn't go down well.

Sherlock on the other hand, feels as though he is replaying a scene from the chasms of his mind palace, an inferior mirage with the bed as his great oasis, the _fata morgana_ only allowing him blurred visions of the Fleur de Lis ceiling wallpaper and his own knuckles clenched white in the sheet.

The pair of them are in fact so stunningly half conscious that in the morning they'll both pretend it never happened. Or perhaps wonder if it ever actually happened at all (John, with a frown of perplexity maintained through all of the morning). Or maybe know that it happened but refuse to own up to it, due to their rather scandalous groans of abandon (Sherlock, who dramatically flourishes the paper in front of his face when he makes eye contact with John from across the table).

With time John finally find a rhythm, slow and teasing, with lovely thin lips firm and unyielding. It's somewhat the same time as last time, Sherlock notices. There's the involuntary muscle twitching, the groans that he barely acknowledges have passed his lips, the firmness of John's grip versus the looseness of his tongue, that addictive feeling of clandestine and intimacy, it's all the _same_ but it's in no way _monotonous_.

There is no Habituation here; there is no way to get used to _this_.

"Ohhhh John, think I'm-" Sherlock says, or thinks he says.

John replies in his own, non – vocal way, increasing the pace, adding more pressure with his fist until Sherlock's orgasm hits him so hard he's unloading John's name from his lips, his back from the mattress and something else entirely down John's throat.

As his collapses back onto the bed, he immediately reaches for the man who has emerged from under the duvet, flushed and aroused himself he imagines. He doesn't know for sure – his eyes are already drooping from fatigue.

Fumbling for the waistband of John's boxers is somewhat difficult, especially when he feels the firm grip of John's hand around his wrist.

"S'alright," The body next to him mumbles, moving Sherlock's hand to his hip so he can lie against him once again, "Y'not ready. Let's wait."

Sherlock rumbles his protest/approval/retort (it depends on the position of his eyebrow's and it's too dark for John to notice), and places a sloppy kiss to John's forehead before falling into unconsciousness, his legs still burning with lactic.

The third and final time Sherlock wakes up, his eyes thrust open so quickly there are white dots dancing in his vision. He suspects – going by his breathing rate and perspiration – that he would have found himself sitting upright if it weren't for the weight of John's arms strung across his stomach holding him down.

A frantic search for the threads of his dream prove fruitless and so Sherlock untangles himself from John, swings his legs over the side of the bed and undergoes his second most common activity (_'Ugh breathing. Breathing's boring.' _Boring perhaps, but really rather necessary in the whole 'staying alive' scenario), Sherlock thought.

He did a rather good job of it, _for about two minutes_, until he realised his crotch was cold. A glance down leads to a rather furrowed brow and an audible 'tut' as Sherlock tucks himself back into his pyjamas, before standing up, grabbing his phone (_05:07 am)_ and heading for the door.

Somewhere between waking up and leaving the room, Sherlock pauses and leans down to press a kiss against John's shoulder, lips lingering to feel the quiver of the trapezius muscle from the sensation. He indulges himself, and adds another couple of kisses that lead up to John's nape pausing only when he feels a little flutter in his chest. He isn't about to go telling anyone about it.

* * *

><p>There is an eerie stillness in the flat: no cries from the violin, no ominous light source from a microscope looming in the darkness of the kitchen and no movement from neither post – nightmare ex-Army Doctor nor self induced insomniac of a Detective.<p>

As Sherlock huffs out a sharp breath of impatience, he wonders once again if this moment of existence is tangible. London is quiet, or as quiet as it could possibly get – the occasional van driving past (milk float, waste disposal truck and Ford Transit Van in that order) and the light breeze causes the lace window shades to quiver and billow.

Seeing the city at this time always reminds him of his first trip to the Capital with his father, confined to The Queen Victoria suite at the St. Pancras Renaissance Hotel, crawling under the floor length, 'duck egg blue' silk curtains in pinstripe pyjamas to press his palms up against the bay window and watch the city break from its lull as his Father was stuck in the boarding room.

He wrote tally charts of the composition of the traffic crawling past for twenty minuets every hour, on the hour. Later, his father joins him in their den of silk and tells him of Mann Whitney, Wilcoxon and Spearman. This memory is almost a salvation to Sherlock, when he feels particularly resentful to Siger Holmes.

In the living room at 221B, there is a few seconds of life, in the form of a harsh whisper.

"What did you take?"

The floorboard creaks and the light padding of feet stops in pause.

"What. Did. You. _Take_?"

He's leans against the fireplace now, a hand braced on the dark wood mantle piece, worrying his top lip to stop himself from losing his temper (but not swearing, never swearing).

Pulling the phone from his ear and instead holds the speaker against his mouth, lowering his voice so much so that it sounds more like the rumbling of a cumulonimbus, he speaks again: "It took little under _two weeks. _Amorous inner-city teenagers could take longer to receive results!" He spits, slamming his hand against the wall, "I was _not_ graced with patience, now tell me, what did you take?"

Waits for an answer, spots the hardback copy of _A Catcher of the Rye_ at the corner of his vision and frowns his distaste. It's in fact _Reproductive and Perinetal Epidemiology, _with R..D Salinger's cover on the front so as to defer John. This is due to Sherlock's uncharacteristic obsessing over both books. His usual habit is to just to flick to the chapter that he desires and take what he needs, even with fiction – except The Catcher in the Rye. He'll press the open book across his heart and claim it's his vice. Has been since he read it under his bed sheet, torch in his mouth in just one night when he was fourteen.

"Gonadotrophins?" He sighs dramatically down the phone and runs a hand through his bed curls. Listens again. Sniffs in displeasure. "You should have brought this to my attention Molly."

So, Sherlock can read up on the biology of pregnancy and get away with it, and with John being such a bloody romantic, will smile a little to himself at Sherlock indulging in his favourite book from his adolescence.

"I couldn't possibly deduce that you had started taking fertility medication when you decided to disappear to your Mothers' for six weeks. Don't be absurd."

Everyone's happy.

Sherlock moves to lean against the table and bites the nail of his thumb. "The time it might take was never an issue for me. You do realise there is a 10-20% of multiple births?" A squeaky little voice can be heard from the phone, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, "You've had one ultrasound! One! It's hardly enough to confirm the number of foetuses!"

Paranoia gets the better of him, and he checks that the bedroom door is still firmly shut before replying again, this time donning a mocking tone that is usually used to mock John, and even then only on special occasions. "Oh, I can see it now! John, hope you don't mind, I've impregnated Molly Hooper, and what's more it's triplets, isn't that _wonderful_?"

...Everyone's...happy...?

His face is rather maniacal and he takes to pacing once more, "Molly, you can't even dress yourself in the morning, last time I saw you the buttons of your cardigan were done up incorrectly, how you'd manage with more than one I have no idea..."

Grabbing his copy of, ahem, _Catcher in the Rye_, he perches himself on the edge of his leather seat and flicks to the index, "HcG levels? And you've been taking urine samples for how long?" He asks, his index finger scanning the pages, "Oh well weren't you prepared? What else?"

_Doppler heartbeat count, no extreme fatigue or morning sickness, not to mention the ultrasound..._

Sherlock sighs heavily and leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his noise, "All right, all right. You have justified yourself rather thoroughly, _thank you_. When are you-?"

The pair of them stays silent on the phone for a few minutes, Sherlock still in the leather seat even though the morning sun is already beginning to prickle the back of his neck, "What did you just say?"

_[I said... I wonder if he'll have your hair?]_

And there it is again, the dream. Sherrie with his café au lait (more like Mycroft) corkscrew curls (more like Sherlock), hand outstretched, with little pink fingers clasping and unclasping and whimpering in frustration : _"Let me, let me, let me!"_

"_Alright, alright, breathe. Here, look." Sherlock says, getting down on one knee to gesture his bare arm to the little boy who now has fat tears now rolling down his cheeks. _

_The little fingers clasp around the wrist, and Sherlock watches with eyebrows raised as his brother's fingers linger on the skin, little body bopping up and down with anxiety. _

"_Fast too."_

_Sherlock hums in approval, the slightest nod. _

_Sherrinford's face scrunches up, "Velvet. He sobs, stomping his foot hard repeatedly against the concrete._

_Sherlock hold's his brother's leg still with a warning glance. They'd both been working on reducing the self – injury for some time now and admittedly with little progress from the younger of the two brothers. _

"_I know, I don't like the velvet either." _

_Sherrinford begins pulling at his hair, screaming, "Was horrid 'Lock!", gaining a few odd looks from the members of High Society that were taking a turn about the grounds during the annual Holmes Midsummer Garden Party. _

"_No Sherrie," Sherlock sighs, immediately grabs his brother's hands and pulling them from his hair, "What did we say about hurting ourselves?"_

_The little boy pouts, still struggling a little against Sherlock's hold._

"_And," Sherlock adds, talking to the top of Sherrie's head, their lack of eye contact really did need to be worked on... "What did we say about our volume, hmm?"_

"_I'm too loud." Sherrinford's sighs, as though he has repeated the sentence a hundred times (probably has). "But you are too quiet! Mumble, mumble, mumble..."_

"_I'm getting better though, aren't I?" _

_Sherrinford nods a little before gasping in surprise, finally letting go of his brother's wrist and reaching under a perfectly trimmed hedge beside them. He pulls his arm back, holding a ball that he had kicked up a fuss about losing just a couple of weeks ago. He beams brightly and so Sherlock does too, watching him bounce it on the patio._

"_You can stop looking at me now; your eyes are hurting me."_

_Sherlock laughs a little at that, "Apologies, ma chérie."_

"_Sherrie. Chérie. Sherrie. Chérie..." _

_Sherlock pulls out his weathered copy of A Catcher in the Rye from his blazer pocket, and sits cross legged on the patio, adoring the innocence of his little brother and holding back thoughts of a woman in a velvet, plum-colored shawl, who seemed unable to take her eyes of his father. _

At that point, the bedroom door creaks open and John shuffles into the kitchen, smiling a little at Sherlock before filling up the kettle.

"Have to go." Sherlock states, "Text me." ending the call, throwing his phone onto the sofa and jumping out of the armchair so quickly his curls bounce on his head, book still in hand.

"Up long?" John slurs, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth to hold back a yawn and leaning up against the kitchen counter.

Sherlock shrugs and falls into a chair, meeting John's eyes through his fringe.

"_I believe you fellated me last night."_

"_Hmm, yeah think I did."_

"_And then you woke me up by doing so again."_

"_Yup."_

"_Feel free to...repeat that."_

"_Oh I intend to Sherlock."_

The kettle clicks and John clears his throat awkwardly, turning to pour the water into the two mugs. Sherlock makes an effort to caress John's fingers when he hands him his cup of tea. After taking a sip, he reaches for his book and buries his head in it.

"That thing again? How often do you read that?" John exasperates, glad for a chance to remove some of the lingering tension.

Sherlock takes a moment to notice John reaching for his own book, on the top of a rather high pile on the corner of the kitchen table and rolls his eyes, "Oh, says the one..."

John smirks, feigning innocence as he opens his own worn copy of _A Clockwork Orange_, giggling a little when his toes tickle Sherlock's foot under the table.

"_Phony_." Sherlock mumbles, his foot now sliding up John's leg and riding up the pyjama trousers.

"Hmm. _Nadmenny bratchny_."

Sherlock and John look blankly at each other, feet still playing under the table, before bursting simultaneously into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

* * *

><p><em>Nadmenny bratchny – <em>Arrogant Bastard (From a Clockwork Orange)

_Ma chérie _- My darling / dear

Oh, and I'm still taking prompts!


	7. Chapter Six

**September 1st 2010 – Eight Weeks.**

Sherlock's shaving his face for the second time today (don't worry, all will be explained) when John strides into the room. By habit, he takes a scrutinising look at the Doctor through the mirror for just a moment, before grabbing the flannel hanging off the knife in the wall (well, hanging off the Cluedo board and then _into_ the wall) and wiping off the residue of the foam where the beginnings of his sideburns had begun to grow.

John likes to pretend it's one of thoselusty_ 'up-down-and back up again but this time slowly to really appreciate what's on offer' _looks because it's a damn sight less critical then '_up-down and back up again but this time slowly to confirm that he'd masturbated in the shower'_. Who was he kidding? Sherlock had just won an award for 'Sexiest Male' from The Sun for God's sake; of course spending most of your current existence with him was going to cause some...complications.

Now, face turned to the right and blade pressed against the jaw, Sherlock pauses again, his eyes doing a double take on John, who's now down on one knee to re-tie one of his shoes.

"What is this madness?" Sherlock mumbles, his diction compensated due to the razor at the corner of his mouth.

John frowns (with his lips, more than his eyebrows, how ever does he _do_ that?) at Sherlock through the mirror and moves to stand next to him, "What you on about, now?"

"Well," Sherlock begins, rinsing his razor, "Where are your Ashby Brogue's John? Why aren't they making an appearance?"

"Oh piss off you," Jon retorts, craning his neck, "Those shoes cost near two hundred quid. Besides, you've spent the day with only half of your face shaven; you've no bloody right to mock me."

Unfortunately, John is not exaggerating. He is (crosses his heart, but hopes not to die), 100% telling la truth. It just so happens that Sherlock's been rather busy today, which just made his running joke all the more unbearable. Thankfully, due to Sherlock's impressive reputation (thanks to John's blog, kept telling yourself that, John certainly has to), three out of the four client's that turned up at the door manage to ignore his appearance. Or rather, that half of his face was still being kept cosy by ginger/_absolutely not ginger John_ bristles.

Now, we know Sherlock's eccentric. He climbs over furniture. He pulls childish faces. He'll take John out for dinner, nip off to the toilet and then come back, asking for John's order donned in the appropriate uniform so he can spy on potential suspects unawares, whilst John not only has to go along with the idea without any prior warning, but also hold back the desire to grab the tea towel hanging from Sherlock's apron and whip him with it.

However, he's recently divulged to John that when he was young, his eccentricities where somewhat exaggerated in order to keep people away. Sometimes Sherlock acts differently because that's genuinely part of his behaviour.

But sometimes he'll just do it to make John giggle. To make his life just a little easier, a little brighter.

So today, he didn't shave each part of his face at a time, like most people. He worked from his left sideburn, across his face horizontally. So, when one man in particular stumbled into the living room, took one look at Sherlock's bizarre arrangement of facial hair and declared, "I'm not taking advice from anyone with _half a goatee_", before hastily taking his leave, Sherlock let out a disdainful snort. And then John giggled. And it was really rather lovely.

"I just find it amusing that he would in fact take advice from someone _with_ a goatee." Sherlock had said.

John smiled breathlessly, "Hmm, have to agree with you on that one."

Now Sherlock takes one slow swipe of the razor from his neck to just under his chin, finishing with a dramatic flourish. He shares a smirk with John, the pair of them looking like a pair of gangling storks what with their craned necks and all, "Told you. I got distracted by an experiment; I wasn't to know it would be so demanding."

"So you spend the whole day looking like bloody two-face?"

Sherlock squints in what could possibly be physical pain, "I have this horrid feeling that was a reference to one of those 'comics' that you and Lestrade rattled on about last time you dragged me to the Pub."

"Bingo." John replies. "I'm off out, remember? It's David's 40th" Although he's quite finished being a little vain, John pauses at the mirror for a reply. But, apparently Sherlock's decided that's the end of the conversation.

Living with the man for nine months ought to have taught John this by now: Sherlock decides when to talk; he decides what to talk _about _and he decides (or has a horrendously bad habit) to jump from to topic to _absolutely in now way related_ topic.

Oh, and also he takes ridiculously long, theatrical pauses mid – conversation, so much so that John often forgets what they were even talking about. In fact, John manages to head back upstairs to fetch his keys, swear profusely at the human leg standing upright in the door of the refrigerator - _"shitting hell, what the absolute fucking fuck is that doing there?" -_ And then compose himself enough to make Sherlock a cup of tea a.k.a his only nutrition in the last two days.

"Should expect that'll be sufficiently awkward for you John."

"Hmm?"

Sherlock rinses his razor a final time, and proceeds to pack away his shaving equipment, "David was a friend from work, so one would assume other ex-colleagues will be there."

"What exactly are you getting at?"

"Well Sarah will be there, will she not?"

John pulls his top lip between his teeth to hold back a rather colourful reply. Something along the lines of _it'll only be awkward because the last time I saw her I was lying between her thighs, and __**you **__decided to barge into the room, twat. _"She will."

"Ergo, it'll no doubt be horrendously awkward, given the last time you two were together." Sherlock winks at John and manages to avoid a kick to the shin. He grabs the towel and attempts to wipe off any remaining residue of foam.

"Sod off...oh come here, you're missing bits." John demands, stealing the cloth from Sherlock's hands. He moves to stand behind the Detective, still frowning through the mirror and begins to remove what Sherlock has missed.

Ever since Sherlock noticed the shaving foam behind Jeff Hope's ear, it's made him a little paranoid that he may also have been caught in the same predicament, because like the cabbie, he 'never had anyone to tell him'. It's at this moment in time he realises that he now has someone.

There are a few seconds of pause, where neither of them is actually frowning, and the towel is hanging limp in John's grasp. Sherlock says 'thank you' with his eyes, and John says 'no worries' with his mouth.

John pulls Sherlock back against him and presses a soft kiss to the freckle on his neck, before smiling serenely and heading out, with a noticeable spring in his step.

* * *

><p><em>What <strong>ever<strong> am I doing?_

"You're, err, buying a card."

Oh. Apparently Sherlock's frustrations were so immense they needed to find an outlet out of his brain.

With genuine bewilderment Sherlock asks himself "But _why_?"

The woman throws Sherlock a concerned glare, wraps a protective arm around her son and makes her get away. She's the second person to do so.

Sherlock gives the card far more disgust that it's worth. What possessed him to enter this shop he has no idea, but now he's looking at stacks of pieces of card filled with insincere, sickly sweet messages and it's everything that Sherlock hates.

"_-'What's incredible though is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'-"_

"_-Now hang on a minute I didn't mean that-"_

"_Oh. You mean spectacularly ignorant in a _nice_ way...Now look," Sherlock manages to haul his body into a sitting position, which considering he is currently mid-sulk, is a rather of a big deal. John knows this and perches on the edge of his own seat in acknowledgement. "You may think it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister or who's sleeping with who-"_

"_Or whether the Earth goes around the Sun..." John mutters under his breath with a smirk, causing Sherlock to punch the coffee table in a burst of rage. His robe billows at the sudden movement almost in slow motion. John's half expecting a ray of light to filter through the window and illuminate Sherlock in some sort of spiritual spotlight._

"_Not that again. It's not _important._" The last word is spoken through clenched teeth._

"_Not impor...? It's Primary School stuff, how can you not know that?"_

"_Well," Sherlock begins nonchalantly, "If I ever did, I've deleted it."_

_John has to run that through his mind. Deleted it. As in, removed/erased/has no previous memory. As in 'Hello my name is Sherlock Holmes and I genuinely believe my mind is a hard drive'._

"_-And it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish. I used to spend my life without any control over what I took in. I knew politics John, I knew High Society and I couldn't take it."_

_He grips the edge of the coffee table now and takes a great, shuddering breath before continuing, "I couldn't understand why society made sex more fashionable, more important in determining someone's status, than intelligence. Why are we constantly told that we have free will, when we are smothered by advertisements, when our entire lives are caught on CCTV and every aspect of our lives is predetermined by a group of festering, pompous-"_

_Bloody hell Sherlock, breathing might be boring, but your face is going slightly purple._

"_- Upper Class morons who know nothing of living in the real world and – no matter what they say – do not have best interests at heart. Do not listen to us and do not make this Country better. We have no free will, we are merely puppets."_

_Then Sherlock bit his top lip and cast his eyes to a far off corner of the room, at such an angle that John was sure they, well, glistened. His voice takes a much softer tone._

"_All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots. Put all that in your blog. Tell them I find life overwhelming. Tell them I am not the empty, emotionless carcass they expect me to be. Or, better still; stop inflicting your opinions on the world."_

_To drive the point home, Sherlock backhands the magazine insisting he go and see 'The Lost Vermeer' (John will dare to tease him later on, when he does, indeed, go and see it for himself) and then curls up on the sofa for a monumental sulk. _

_It's too much for John._

_He's always known they have always been parasites to each other. Latching onto the other, taking something from the host and giving something in return. In this moment John realises they are in an entirely mutalistic relationship. _

_Whether their relationship allows for nutrition or attrition, John isn't entirely sure._

_Sherlock pouts as John struts past him, jaw set and lips sternly thin, "Where are you going?"_

There's now a hand waving in front of his face.

"Scuse' me mate, you alrig-"

Sherlock sniffs disdainfully. "You manually stimulated your..._wife_ this morning. You may enjoy the scent, I do not. Get your hand out of my face, buy her _this_ card-"

There's a lot of gold glitter, and flamboyant, curly writing of the word 'Congratulations'.

"-And add 'you have a water infection, and your husband cannot talk correctly'. Good evening."

* * *

><p>In terms of <em>firsts<em> for Sherlock, today is really rather miraculous.

Half shaven face and the 'soul' (_imagine the contortion of Sherlock's face at the concept of a 'soul' and the lack of substantial evidence for such a thing_) destroying venture into some _institute_ full of _people_ and _things_ was just the start.

Then Sherlock hauls a cab, well actually two, at the same time (that's typical). He barely has to raise his hand at the edge of the curb and they come a-flocking. There's a flustered mother with a snoozing toddler against her shoulder and a red – faced, weepy child clutching her other hand and they just drive on past to stop in front of him.

Here is the a-typical part, or the a-Sherlock part. He gestures to one cab to wait, opens the door to the _other_ cab and holds it for a whole two minutes and sixteen seconds whilst the family clambers in, the Mother frantically trying to hold in flailing limbs with seatbelts.

The woman smiles in thanks. The muscles in the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitch.

As the cab pulls away, the little boy presses his still ruby red nose to the glass and steams in up with condensation. He draws what Sherlock assumes to be a 'smiley face' against the glass and waves his chubby little fingers at Sherlock. And Sherlock, his index finger pressed to his bottom lip in pause, finds his fingers wiggling back.

Sitting in his own cab on the way to St. Barts, Sherlock notices his chest feels lighter, yet his mind feel denser. As he sinks into the faux leather seats, his mind palace welcomes him, wrought iron gates open in ominous welcoming.

In some ways, it felt the same as when he was with John. A giddy, almost nauseous feeling.

One couldn't feel their organs within themselves. Sherlock wrote an entire essay on just such a topic for a competition from New Scientist when he was 14 years old. He won, of course. His father gave him a pat on the back – not even metaphorically, he actually touched him – Mycroft suggested they go out for Dinner, which then sent Sherringford into an episode because that wasn't what they _did_ on a Thursday.

Instead, Sherlock celebrated by putting up a tent in Sherringford's bedroom and reading the paper to him. In Klingon. They then stayed up all night, writing a letter to Marc Okrand – the creator of said language - asking him to produce words for 'myogenic', 'duodenum' and 'peristalsis' to name but a few.

The point trying to be made is although Sherlock knows _it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever_, he feels like – Oh God he can't believe he's going to say it –

_Like a weight has been lifted._

Now, of course it's not a physiological weight. He isn't oblivious, if he lost much more weight he'd probably find himself in hospital with a drip in his arm. That means it's – Sherlock shudders at this point, and has to glare right back at the driver when he throws him a look through the rear view mirror – emotional. Metaphorical.

Sherlock hates metaphors. Hates them more than breathing. Hates them more than Anderson. Hates them more than the fact that Anderson has the respiratory system that _allows_ for breathing.

But that's what it is.

Is this what normal people do then, in their normal lives? This wretched contentment, is it from social interaction? Does one need to comply to social norms in order to feel accepted, to feel at peace with the World?

Now, envision a man such as Sherlock Holmes faced with such a predicament.

Thankfully, he manages to find a twisted sort of tranquillity in a self digesting pancreas or the gloving of the skin, though having to constantly keep himself aware of potential St. Barts colleagues that could walk into the lab, playing the part of 'Jobs worth' and banishing him.

The thought of having to climb out the window or zip himself up into a body bag again is not a welcomed one.

But then comes the tell tale squeak of the lab door, the clacking of shoes on the linoleum.

Sherlock places the pipette on the table and turns his head towards her. He doesn't know what to say. He isn't quite sure what to do.

She bites her bottom lip shyly, and finally lifts her head to look at him.

"Sherlock, hi."

He sniffs nonchalantly and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets in a (poor) attempt to look indifferent about the situation. But his mouth pulls in protest, and he finds himself smiling bashfully, as a young boy would to the first person who could make his blood hot.

"Hello you."


End file.
